Yellow Rose
by PeekabooFang
Summary: A prequel, retelling of, and sequel to the stage show, eventually centering around a particular little ballet dancer.
1. Chapter 1

_She is not beautiful, but she is striking, _Girard thought as he watched Anahid dance.

A haze of uncertainty and anticipation clung about the year 1863 in the great palace of Naser al-Din Shah Qajar. The 32-year-old shah was entering his fifteenth year of rule, and his reformist ideals coupled with his brutal punishment of perceived traitors unnerved his populous. Globally, Great Britain had seven years before waged war on him for reclaiming land in Afghanistan, which was too close to British-occupied India for the empire's comfort. Such unfettered initiative in a leader then so young disturbed even the officially neutral French empire.

The young Persian king felt an instant kinship with this Frenchman Julien Girard. Scarcely five years younger than Naser, Julien was the youngest ambassador to Persia in his country's history, and his youthful inexperience contrasted with his canny ability appealed to Naser. Although Julien was almost three months into his stay, this was the first time Naser was able to persuade him to join the shah for a night's formal entertainment.

Julien Girard was a svelte young man whose bearing bespoke his formal education and rigid upbringing. His handsome face held both a look of boyish youth and dignified agelessness. Fair-haired with blue-gray eyes, he had a candid way of assessing a room that made people look at him initially with approval—but when they studied him more closely, they were vaguely put off by the unsettled dance of his eyes that were constantly skimming over people and objects, always in motion, always as if looking for something better, more satisfying, more true.

These eyes were now focused on Anahid, watching her dance.

_She is not beautiful. Handsome, perhaps, in an unconventional way. But she is not beautiful. _His gaze never left her whirling form.

He stood in what he could only describe as a ballroom. It was a vast open space with gilded pillars. The evening breeze floated in through lilac veils, incense lacing the air. A bendir drum and chang harp accompanied Anahid's dance. She moved with pinpoint precision on the king's elegant rug in the center of the great room.

Julien's mission was primarily one of maintenance. Beyond the usual negotiations for trade, the instructions he'd received indirectly from Napoleon III were to express the emperor's sympathies to the shah in regards to Persia's plans for expansion—while expressing with utmost tact that France absolutely would not budge in their own territories should Naser's ambition expand even further. So far, Julien knew not what to make of the young shah. He was a strange contrast of the old and the new. He held reformist leanings and was a well-read young man. He was particularly fascinated with Europe, constantly asking Julien about the latest technology, literature, and art in Julien's home country. He often expressed his hope to visit there, which would make him the first modern Persian monarch to do so.

Yet in a second those intelligent and overeager eyes could flash with malicious haughtiness as he ordered the death of a dissenting Bábí. In short, he spoke with liberal fervor but acted with brutality —something that reminded Julien dolefully of the French court.

Despite his youth, Julien was a favorite of Napoleon's. He had spent most of his early education in the streets, handing out pamphlets, crying for reform, gathering others to his cause, singing the praises of the brave and steadfast third Napoleon. Yet an uneasy jadedness entered the once revolutionary heart of the young Girard. The fervor that expelled him from his own noble home, leaving him disowned, had caused France's new emperor to embrace him. It was this same emperor that helped quell that fervor almost completely when nothing in society seemed to change for the better—_never for the better._

He couldn't help the cynical burst of bitterness in his breast when he recalled that his family only agreed to reconciliation when Napoleon became more and more conservative, and when they heard the news of Julien's ascension to his lofty position of ambassador.

It was true that recently Napoleon showed signs of leniency, relaxing his more conservative measures and even inviting back exiled citizens into the country. But Julien scoffed at the idea this came from a crisis of conscience; more likely a crisis of advisers and a rebellious populous that quailed at the thought of war in Prussia and needed some sort of positive reinforcement.

Julien struggled with his borderline treacherous feelings toward Napoleon and his innate desire to execute his job well.

Yet on this evening such thoughts were far from the young man's mind. Tonight, he watched Anahid dance.

He was trying violently to dismiss her from his mind when her black eyes met his for an instant as she turned—and his throat went dry, his chest clenching painfully.

Quiet figures clothed in black, indistinct, walked slowly around the circumference of the room, they too watching Anahid. Girard noticed that these indistinct figures followed Anahid wherever she went, her own shadowy ghosts.

No one else ever deigned to notice them, ignoring them as though they were invisible specters that only Julien was privy to.

She twirled, the gold coins on her bodice and skirt jangling together. Their sound melded charmingly with the harp.

Anahid Najami was exactly Julien's age and looked older. She carried her tall form with majestic grace, her fierce black eyes staring luminously out from a strong-featured face with prominent bone structure. All her features were long: her straight nose, her full lips, those black eyes. The chestnut strands in her raven hair turned to fire in the candlelight. Her hands, feet, and limbs were also long; her tawny arms wrapped around her revolving frame like scarves caught in a spinning wheel. Her grave face, too, was long, and though it held no beauty the way Girard understood it, he could not tear his eyes away. His heart beat more insistingly than the bendir.

She was the shah's favorite dancer, despite the fact there were younger and more conventionally beautiful girls that begged for the king's eye. She was another example of Naser's unique liberality. She was considered an independent woman, someone who had studied abroad and mastered several languages and dialects, and could hold her own in political conversation. Plus, no one possessed the versatility and talent Anahid did when it came to dance. She was an expert in classical court dances along with the Kereshmeh, Bandari, and she was even proficient in Western dances such as ballroom and ballet (both Western _and _Eastern versions). Naser sat now on a cushion with shining eyes staring in light satisfaction as Anahid gave him a soft smile full of mystery as she gyrated, a smile that instantly made Julien's cheeks turn to flames and an unexpected hatred for Naser fill his breast.

Her mother had been a Turkish refugee, he learned. Her father had served as the chief of police, or _daroga_, under the reign of Naser's father. Anahid's unconventional education and upbringing put her in an invaluable position as go-between for Julien and the shah. Naser assigned her as Julien's unofficial envoy. She made the usually solemn Julien laugh out loud the first time they met at a more informal gathering than the present one, when she mimicked perfectly the dialect and slang of a typical Parisian grocer.

He hated that he could never look away.

He would watch as her eyes, glittering, would sometimes leave the faces of those she conversed with at court, and swim to those indistinct figures dressed in black—Julien at last learned they were part of Persia's secret police force, never speaking, never truly seen by the petted gentry in the palace.

After her father died she'd lost all her contacts within the police, she told him. He resented she took him for such a fool.

He let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding when Anahid with a swift bow ended her dance and the music stopped. He didn't know he'd still been staring transfixed until he started when the shah's hand shot out and clutched his arm.

Julien swallowed a grimace when he noticed that the shah's eyes—which could be so thoughtful, contemplative—held instead the look of brutality. Naser grinned. "Wait, my dear friend, until you see what I have next!"

With an excited wave of the hand, he signaled to Anahid. For the first time Julien noticed a suppressed look of irritation cross her face. Still, she bowed stiffly again and exited the hall.

The shah leaned back on his cushion. "You'll see," he said to Julien.

Anahid re-entered, leading a figure behind her.

The figure was that of a tall and slender young man. He was dressed all in black, save for a white silk mask that covered vertically one half of his face. Julien leaned forward a bit, narrowing his eyes as he gazed at the exposed side. It was eerily pale, almost as pale as the mask. The half of the lips Julien could see were grotesquely swollen, almost inhumanly so, and seemed permanently formed into a lewd, sensual sneer. He possessed very little hair, yet he was quite young, Julien thought; fifteen at the oldest.

Anahid pronounced one word: "Erik". Another bow, and then Anahid slipped silently away. That was another skill of hers: despite her powerful presence and striking looks, Anahid could become so quiet, so still, she would make you forget she was there, turn as invisible as the black figures circling and circling...

Erik stepped forward to the king. "Great shah," said the most hypnotically beautiful tenor Julien ever heard from a man. With the grace of a trained dancer, Erik dipped into a low bow and then presented, seemingly out of nowhere, a Punjab lasso.

Naser laughed heartily, eyes sparkling.

Julien looked for Anahid. She was not smiling with the rest of the court.

For the next fifteen minutes Erik amused the assembly with various awe-inspiring tricks. First the lasso was very large, then it was small; then it was completely knotted, then it was straight; then it whipped out like a cobra and coiled itself around the shoulders of a shrieking and giggling concubine.

In spite of himself, Julien was enthralled by the graceful sleight of hand the boy possessed.

He felt the shah bat at his arm again. He pointed enthusiastically to the mysterious boy. "Look, look!"

From the same unknown place he stored the lasso Erik now produced an ornate hand mirror. "A good shah always knows what's on his subject's mind, my liege," Erik said. "Let us study the faces of those assembled, shall we?" He started singing an ethereal song in a Persian dialect so ancient Julien could not recognize it. He sang in such a pure voice it unwillingly brought tears to the Frenchman's eyes (he later learned this was an original composition of Erik's, 'The Ballad of Mirrors'). With long slender fingers, Erik unhooked something in the mirror so that it dangled on its hinge, then with his gloved hand he set it spinning.

First the fat laughing face of one of the advisers suddenly appeared. He was sitting at the opposite end of the spacious room. Julien froze. Such a trick was unearthly, surely...then, a lovely concubine, disappearing embarrassed into her fan. Then three more, then four more surprised and delighted subjects appeared in the looking glass. Then Julien's own taciturn face, that turned beet red and earned a good ribbing from his royal host.

Finally the mirror reflected Anahid's face- a face full of the saddest resignation in the world.

The sight of her seemed to shame both the shah and Erik, for the king signaled to Erik that it was time for the finale.

Sustaining the highest note Julien had yet heard from a human voice, Erik spun the mirror twice more. The first spin reflected Erik's own face with its mask, then-

Terrified screams and gasps filled the hall.

Julien staggered.

The countenance in the mirror made him think for a quick moment that the spinning glass opened the gates of hell.

A demon stared out.

The half of Erik's face the mask hid was now revealed. Dark red caverns twisted the chalk-white face, the distorted swollen lips like those of some deep-sea creature. Above them one nostril looked almost melted, spread above his philtrum. Patches of his skin were corpse-white, others like yellowed parchment. And always the dark red caverns, that large star-shaped indent on the side of his skull, exposing what looked like brain tissue but was simply more discolored, distorted skin. His good eye was dark brown and beautiful; his other was a blue so pale it was almost white, the pupil an angry pinprick.

Julien didn't think something so hideous, so deformed, could live and breathe in real life.

Yet he didn't miss the deep sorrow in the mismatched eyes, the bitter intakes of breath that stuttered out at those assembled from that devil's mirror.

Still under the censuring influence of Anahid's gaze, Naser did not take as much satisfaction as he'd hoped from the performance. He still put on a good show, forcing a laugh and clapping markedly. "Good, good!" Suddenly determined to prove his reformist and humanitarian credentials, he stood and slapped an amiable hand on Erik's shoulder. "I saved this man from a degraded life in a sideshow outside your native France, monsieur. Now he is invaluable to me, not only as an entertainer, but as an architect and an adviser." Julien noticed that this kindly shah dared not look his hideous adviser in the face. "Wise beyond his years." Another pat, and the shah returned to his seat. "Thank you, Erik. Anahid, be so kind as to show him out, please."

Possessing the same sad grace from before, Anahid with almost motherly care led Erik out by his arm. Even she could not stare directly into his face.

Julien noticed the black figures were gone.

* * *

><p>Sleep did not come easily to Julien that night. After nearly three months he still had not fully acclimated to the scorching dry heat or the rich food at court, and that combined with the perturbing images from the shah's soiree kept him jittery through half the night. When at last a light sleep fell on him, he dreamed of shadowy figures singing in ethereal unison, a whirling mirror reflecting faces that looked like a grotesque cross between Napoleon and Naser's, Erik's deformed countenance with Julien's own eyes, and Anahid, Anahid, Anahid.<p>

His eyes flew open with the preternatural sense something just happened. He sat upright, listening to the salty hot breeze that flowed through the gold-embroidered curtains. Perhaps it was just the sound of his own panting breath, but he felt sure that he heard the quick whisper of footsteps below his window.

All at once they stopped, and he heard hushed voices. One was a woman's. He put his back to the wall by the window and peeked through the gauzy curtain.

He could not see clearly through the darkness, but he had her form and gestures memorized so well by now that there was no doubt. The figure beside her was tall and slim, and clutching his shoulder as if injured. Anahid shushed her companion when he suddenly let out a sharp laugh, like a drunken madman. They disappeared into the shadows, hurrying away.

Julien pulled on his clothes quickly. Working purely on instinct, he lit his lantern and stepped out into the hall, slipping past the guards' notice.

* * *

><p>He touched his fingers to the cold pavement below his window, feeling the damp red spots he found there. Blood. He was comforted remembering it was Anahid's companion that appeared wounded, not she.<p>

He extended his arm holding the lantern so he could see farther down the walkway and noticed that the droplets of blood traced a trail around the corner of the palace wall.

He did not question his motives. He followed the crimson path.

The lantern burned mellow in the deep black night. He turned at every rustling sound, only to register it as the warm breeze stirring the Cyprus leaves bordering the palace walkway.

All of a sudden the trail ended, in the middle of the walkway by the palace's East wing. Julien turned to the right, studying the grass by the pavement. No sign of blood there, or footprints.

He was mystified. Then something about the square of pavement the blood ended on caught his eye. He bent down, putting the lantern on the ground to better see.

The blood seemed to trickle down into the cracks. Julien hesitantly lifted a hand and knocked lightly on the surface. Then he stood up swiftly. Hollow. The panel was hollow.

Crouching again, he ran his fingers down the groove of the panel. He stopped once his fingers caught on something that felt almost like a button.

Swallowing drily, he pushed.

With a soft whooshing sound the panel rose, allowing Julien to slip his fingers further down the grooves and lift it. A trapdoor.

Luckily there was no creaking to be heard: the work of a master. Dimming his lantern, Julien peered down to see the top of two heads below, sitting at a table in a small cell.

He recognized the part in Anahid's hair and the scant traces of Erik's.

Julien cupped his ears to hear what their quiet voices were saying.

"Stop that ghoulish laughter," Anahid said in a low voice. "You could have been killed."

A dark snicker. "Yes, I do believe that was the assassin's goal, my dear." Julien heard Erik hiss, taking in a breath. "I know you're angry, Anahid, but must you take out your frustration while sewing me up?"

So that was what Anahid was looking at so intently, her head bowed. She was sewing up the wound in his shoulder. She muttered something that was either an apology or another scolding. Either way Erik simply snickered again.

"You should have let me kill him," Erik said in an easy voice, as if it were simply something that came to mind.

"That shows how young you are," she answered drily. "Knocking him out like I did will only anger him. Killing him would incense his fellow assassins in the force. I think we'll have enough trouble from their end as it is."

"How did you know they were after me?"

"I knew it was coming. I knew for certain it was tonight when they disappeared after your performance."

There was a long silence.

At last Erik spoke. "They'll know you saved me," he said quietly.

"I suppose they will," she said in a voice so soft Julien almost didn't hear it.

In a sad sing-song voice Erik asked, "And what are we to do about it, hmm?"

"_May I be of assistance?" _It took Julien a moment to realize it was his voice that spoke. He stared down with a surprisingly composed face at the upturned ones of the two below. For perhaps the first time in both their lives, Anahid and Erik were taken aback, momentarily speechless.

Then Erik opened his mouth wide—from what Julien could see of it behind his mask—and emitted such a loud barking laugh that it resembled a wild hyena's more than a man's.

Anahid ferociously pressed her hand to his mouth, hissing, "_Shh! Shh!" _

With graceful dexterity, Julien swung himself inside and closed the trapdoor behind him before any chance wanderers outside could hear that hysterical fiendish laugh. He climbed nimbly down the ladder into the cell.

He stood before them.

"Well?" He asked.

Anahid recovered herself and raised an arch brow. "Well?" She answered back. "What do you want, monsieur?"

"To spy on us," Erik nearly giggled. "To report us to the shah!" He burst into another inhuman laugh.

Anahid's fathomless black eyes met Julien's.

_Blue-grey and remote like a winter pool's, _she thought.

"No, I don't think he shall," she said with the realization of certainty.

"No, I shan't," Julien said in a tone of inarguable finality. He fished into his pocket for a cigar. He lit it and leaned back against the wall. "Still, I wouldn't mind an explanation."

Anahid closed her eyes and sat silently for several minutes, apparently battling an internal war. Beside her Erik finished dressing his wound—a knife wound, Julien assessed from what he could see of it—as the deformed boy whistled a nonchalant tune.

At last Anahid opened her glorious eyes again.

_She is like a statue of a fallen goddess, kneeling in the wreckage of war._

He blinked the thought away.

"Very well, monsieur," she said with a half smile. "I will tell you all."

Her father and refugee mother trained her in the art of subterfuge, of intrigue. When they died, she was recruited by the shah's family to work for the secret police, transmitting messages from her contacts either through her dancing—a quirk of her hand to the left could mean death, to the right that the papers were in the study- or through any means she had up her sleeve. It was work that took her often out of the country, completing her education.

One such trip about three years ago took her to the outskirts of France near Lausanne. She was masquerading then as a French laundress, and decided to blend in with a crowd gathered for a large traveling fair that had come to the city. Tumblers, conjurors, human oddities, and the like. She walked unimpressed among the villagers until she came upon a much advertised event: "The Demon Genius."

At her pronunciation of the title, Erik's whistling faltered, his finger freezing at the needle. With a shiver, he continued as she picked up her narrative again.

A man, locked in a cage—but no, a boy. A mere boy. It was hard to tell because he was so tall—and because of the distorted face- but he was a boy, nonetheless.

Others screamed at his face. Some jeered and threw bottles. Anahid only stared with tears frozen in her eyes as the circus master extolled Erik's genius locked away behind the facial deformities. As she watched, the boy began to sing. It was the voice of an angel, a pure angel...trapped in a cage, with scars on his back...

It didn't take much effort to convince the young shah to contrive an escape for Erik. Anahid knew he needed a new architect. When she described his skill and his face, spies were sent at once to free the boy, with Anahid standing guard.

"I...pictured a different sort of life for him. A life where he could exercise his skills in the arts, in architecture." She motioned to the cell they were sitting in, the trapdoor above. "All this he designed, and all built within the space of but three years. He was not even thirteen when I found him. I pictured-"

Julien jumped as he heard Anahid's voice right behind him, saying into his ear, "I pictured everyone living happily ever after with myself crowned as empress. Hee hee!"

A bemused look crossed her face. "He has also mastered throwing his voice. An unconventional form of ventriloquism."

Before Julien could answer, Erik spoke for him with Julien's own voice seemingly coming out of the Frenchman: "Intriguing, mademoiselle!"

Anahid shook her head wearily and continued. "Since then...well, I won't go into detail. But the shah wants him dead. And I no longer wish to lead a life such as this, it has no charm anymore, believe me. What's done is done. I suppose we shall both face our judgment tomorrow for evading the assassin."

"She says so casually," Erik sneered. "Knowing full well it will lead to both our deaths to present ourselves. That's what _she's _led me to: nothing but death."

She regarded him sharply. "Yes, and you'll take it like a man."

At this juncture Anahid stood. She approached Julien and spoke to him in a low voice. "May I speak to you outside?"

She turned to Erik. "Lie down. You need rest." She indicated a small cot Julien hadn't noticed before.

Julien could just barely make out Erik's mismatched eyes as they studied him. Erik at last nodded his assent. He carefully watched the two ascend the ladder.

* * *

><p>They found a remote trail through an enclave of Cypress trees, Persian yellow roses lining their path, glowing eerily in the dark night.<p>

Anahid stared into the sky, rubbing her arms. "I didn't want to describe what he's become in front of him, talking of him like he wasn't there."

Julien waited a moment before speaking. "And what _has _he become?"

She pinned him down suddenly with eyes full of frightened fire. "If nothing is done soon, he will become a monster."

There was nothing to say in reply.

She turned her face away, walking briskly now. "When Erik first entered his court, Naser treated him well, recognizing his genius, letting him work honestly. But then..." she drew in a deep breath. "The shah is not completely to blame. He took the throne too young, and is still easily led. The little sultana, who is now too sick to move, along with some old miscreants who still crowd the court are mostly at fault. Once it was discovered what lurked beneath the mask, they pressed the shah, demanded that his 'freak' be trotted out for their amusement." She shook her head. "Naser resisted for a while, but I saw their enthusiasm take hold of him as well."

"Don't think that's unique to the Persian court," Julien said bitterly. "I can easily see my fellow noble Frenchmen indulging in such exploitive behavior as well, including my fine emperor. It was a French sideshow you rescued him from, after all."

"Yes, perhaps it was to be expected. But it seemed to..._break _something in Erik, who thought he'd escaped that sort of degradation. It poisoned his soul. Soon he was volunteering his services for more..._lurid _purposes."

She shivered then, her eyes to the ground. "I first learned what his genius had turned to when the maze of mirrors was completed."

"Maze of mirrors?"

She shut her eyes. "I remember that day...the shah eagerly gathered us into the vault below the palace, below the cells you just saw. He led us into a narrow room with a long window in front of us. The window looked down into a pit, surrounded by multiple mirrors. In...in the pit were three men, dissenting Bábí." She licked her lips, her eyes frozen in the fear of recollection. "Erik...Erik pulled a lever." She all at once threw her hands over her face. "It was terrible, _terrible! _Believe me, monsieur, I am no shrinking violet who faints at the first sign of danger! I've earned my iron will and can withstand much, but this! The mirrors, they...they started spinning, it seemed..."

"Like tonight's demonstration," Julien murmured.

She nodded numbly. "Yes. Only instead of reflecting people, the glass reflected a desert scene, filled with tigers that would pounce on the dissenters, or snakes ready to strike. That was harmless, really, but then—the window—I felt it and my hands almost burned—he-he was_ suffocating them. _He created a desert for them to die in, showing them images of water they could never drink. As long as I live I will forever hear their screams!" She let out a staggering breath. "Finally, _finally _the dissenters confessed whatever crimes the shah wanted them convicted for. They were released and granted a quick death."

Julien felt a chill that had nothing to do with the warm breeze.

She suddenly grabbed his arm and they were but a breath apart. Her eyes were wild and beseeching. "Yes, Naser turned him into an assassin. But please, _please—_don't think of him as beyond redemption! You see...I've seen him. Seen him nurse an ailing songbird back to life, take it to his bosom like a babe and give it life again. Seen him lie and help children escape who were under scrutiny for treason. I think he can still be saved. The shah has decided he's become too reckless—you saw his behavior just now, heard his laugh—and that he knows too much. He's amused by him, but he wants him gone, dead. Tonight was a grand finale to honor Erik—before sicking assassins on him."

"What of the boy's family?"

She shrugged, sighing. "He has none that will claim him. He ran away from home while still a child, which is how he was captured for the sideshow. He's implied he comes from a noble family, but not one that acknowledges a face such as his." Julien never before saw such tender appeal in her face. "Please, sir, try to show some compassion to one who's lived a life without any."

Julien found it difficult to answer when she was so close, when her loose dark mane was almost touching his cheek. "And you?"

Her smile was infinitely sad and beautiful. "I meant what I said. I'll face whatever I have to. But monsieur...you are a kind man, I've seen it. I saw your sorrow as you gazed at his face tonight. Surely...surely if I present myself to the shah as a traitor, that would be distraction enough for you to spirit Erik away, to-"

She froze as he clutched both her arms. She stared at this face, more handsome than any she'd ever seen, his keen eyes stormy and sincere. "I will save him. I will take him wherever you will. But I will not abandon you. You come or I do nothing." Again, there was no room for argument in his tone, none.

Her voice was low. "You do realize that such an act will certainly make you not only an enemy of Persia but of your own country as well."

She could not understand the strange smile that flickered across his features. _The grotesque face that was both Naser's and Napoleon's, _he thought._ Yes. Leave it. Leave it all behind. _

He gazed at her passionately. "In exile...for you?" He pressed her lips to his, kissing her madly. He pulled away to gaze at her, running a gentle, revering hand over her waves of hair. "Gladly."

A slow, mischievous smile formed on Anahid's grave face as well. "No," she whispered. "Not _for _me. _With _me."

And she pulled him to her again, and they kissed once more, shaded by the Cypress trees.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Welcome to my headcanon backstory/sequel to the events of the stage show! This is strictly ALW musical-based (not movie based, though I may borrow some details here and there). I'll use Leroux to fill in certain blanks, but character interpretations and plot points are all ALW-centered, filtered through my crazy brain. I haven't read Susan Kay's _Phantom _(I know, I suck), but I kinda feel like I have since I've read so much great meta about it and, well, I've shamelessly wikipedia'd it. So that might be unconsciously where I got the idea of assassins driving Erik out of Persia.**

**I am not at all what you'd call a history buff, but I am trying here. Even though I'm including real figures like Naser and Napoleon, this is basically a historical au, where the Opera House is not the Palais Garnier of history but the Opera Populaire of the ALW universe. I'm still going to mention real historical things here and there, but please be kind if I muck anything up. If it's a huge glaring error, call me out on it, but otherwise you might well go mad trying to correct every little..."liberty" (i.e. big fat mistake) I make. Just as long as it doesn't take you out of the story, let sleeping opera ghosts lie!**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy!**

**Oh, and of course: I own nothing, nothing I tell you! ALW/Gaston Leroux/Fancy People Who Aren't Me own the rights.**


	2. Chapter 2

_Paris, 1867_

Gabriel Reyer shuffled through the stack of papers on his desk, trying to organize who was coming when for which interviews. Ever since the opera house started remodeling two years prior, the place had become a hectic blur of new staff members and promotions and the occasional messy dismissal.

Reyer's blood was particularly up because how efficiently he could prove himself now would surely lean him toward promotion instead of the other. He'd started out as a clerk before the opera house was redesigned, and now he was the secretary to the new manager, a pleasant but distant and troubled man named Lefevre. If he particularly pleased Lefevre, perhaps Reyer could finally be allowed near the stage, maybe as an assistant director, and then possibly finally as an actual stage direct—

"Blast!" He cried out as the papers spilled from his grasp onto the floor beside the desk.

"It would appear M. Lefevre's secretary is in need of a secretary," a cool voice spoke from the doorway.

He looked up. A woman was standing there. She gave one the impression that you should straighten your posture immediately and never look her in the eye. She seemed taller than she actually was due to her proud stance and bearing. Black was her main theme—black dress, black hat with veil, black stole, black gloves, black hair pulled severely black. She was pale but didn't seem naturally so, so that her complexion held an odd sallow glow. Her angular face could have been that of anyone from age thirty to fifty. Had her large dark eyes held any sort of softness in them, she could have been called handsome for all her stark features.

Overall she was an impressive figure, inspiring a nervous awe. Reyer's disposition, however, was to always tend toward prickly irritation, ignoring impressive figures altogether. "Do you want something, Madame," he practically spat out, rankled by her comment and the stress of his current occupation scooping scattered papers off the floor.

She removed her gloves, bemused smirk still on her face. "I have an appointment for the position of Ballet Mistress here. My name is Antoinette Giry."

Flustered and red, he returned to his papers, rifling through them. "I do believe you're early," he responded with tentative annoyance creeping into his voice when he couldn't find hers among the many appointment slips.

All at once Lefevre was there, more animated than Reyer had ever seen him, leaving his office and extending his hands toward Madame Giry. "Not at all, not at all! Madame Giry, yes?" Though his smile was wide and his manners ingratiating, both Giry and Reyer noticed the look of a frozen deer in his eyes.

Even the composed figure of Madame Giry seemed vaguely perplexed as he hurried forward, giving her hands a vigorous shake. "We have been expecting you, dear lady! You arrived from Brussels all right? Excellent, excellent. We have heard _so _much about you." He led her into his office, leaving his pestered secretary behind.

"Who do you mean by _we?" _Antoinette questioned once Lefevre shut the door.

He didn't respond, simply repeated what positive reports he'd heard of her, running his hands through his bushy hair. He seemed distracted, Giry noticed. He would not keep still, was asking if she wanted a drink, was opening and shutting the drawers in his desk, never truly looking at her. She ran her eyes over him. He was in his forties, or close to it. Pointed goatee, profusion of sandy hair that was beginning to gray.

There was a hallowed look in those eyes the few times she was able to look in them, dark circles underneath. This was how she knew the man was troubled. Deeply troubled.

She shifted annoyed in her seat. She was in no mood for nonsense.

"Might I inquire as to why your current dance mistress was dismissed? I'd read she'd been with the theater for twenty years."

He paused for a moment. Then he busied himself wiping some dust off his desk. "She was deemed unacceptable." Before she could pursue that line, he quickly blurted out, "Oh, you know how it is when a place is remodeled! Not only the structure, but the staff! The poor dear lady was simply too old and set in her ways. What we need," he said, at last taking a seat on the corner of his desk, fingers strumming agitatedly in his lap, "What we need is a fresh perspective for our choreography. Fresh blood as it were. Your resume speaks for itself, Madame!"

Instead of a resume, he pulled out a newspaper clipping from one of her performances. "A glowing review of you in a performance of _Giselle _in Frankfurt! Another but five months later in a theater in Milan! A few positions teaching poor children in Belgium and Switzerland before that, which is very nice…but surprising to picture such an elegant lady in such a rustic setting!"

"We do what we can only to survive," she said unromantically.

He cleared his throat. "And all this in just the space of but two or so years! You went from humble teacher to renowned artist in the blink of an eye! Remarkable, Madame. Just the sort of perseverance and talent we need here in the opera house. We can afford you living arrangements here that are most accommodating, especially with your little daughter in tow. Perhaps we may see her one day in our ballet chorus, eh?" His chuckle was too forceful, too rehearsed.

She raised an eyebrow. "Does that mean you are definitely offering me the position?"

He laughed too heartily again, slapping his knee in such an unnatural fashion that it was almost grotesque. "You are most charmingly direct, aren't you, Madame? Yes, we—everyone here at the Opera Populaire, that is—would be honored to include you in our ranks."

He stood, hands in pockets, frozen smile on his face. He acted as though the matter and the interview were concluded.

Madame Giry found herself perplexed again, and it was such a rare emotion it irritated her deeply. "But monsieur, don't you want to see me in practice, or discuss with me the matters of salary, of dance style, of"—

He placed his hand near her elbow, not touching it but with palm open in a way that suggested he wanted to lead her toward the door. "I trust you implicitly, Madame. I've heard _such _positive reports. As for compensation, well, we are quite generous here, I assure you."

She was almost to the door when she stopped him. "Monsieur, I insist at least on a tour of the theater I'm to direct in."

"Assuredly," he answered, steering her to the door again, opening it for her. "Monsieur Reyer will be pleased to conduct you."

Reyer, who heard this exchange, protested wordlessly, mouth open. His papers….

Lefevere bent down suddenly and put her hand almost to his lips—again, not quite touching. "Madame, a pleasure." He turned back to his office.

Giry was burning with displeasure at the hasty way she'd been offered the fate of one of the most famous ballets in the world and her quick dismissal from the office, but she was in no financial position to argue. She was just able to call out one more question. "Was it my friend and former employer Madame Valerius who recommended me to you?"

Again a moment's hesitation, hand on the knob. Haunted eyes criss-crossed around the room. He said at last with another false laugh, "It is embarrassing to admit, Madame, but I can't quite remember how it was we learned of you. It was probably just the glowing reviews I read in the paper. I'll have to check my files someday to verify. Good day!" He disappeared behind his slammed door.

* * *

><p>It did not take much maneuvering on Giry's part to convince Reyer to leave her alone on her tour of the opera house. He hurried back to the office, determined to be everywhere at once, which he was sure would please the overworked Lefevre.<p>

Giry examined the backstage, the dance studio, her future living quarters. Construction was still underway, and with her dancer's nimble grace she was successfully able to dodge laborers with their heavy planks and carpets.

She stood now on the grand stage.

She looked out at the velvet seats, the slanting gilded banisters lining the balcony above. The royal purple color of the curtains and long silken tassels looked overtly Oriental in design. She liked it. She recognized the architects were brilliant men, melding the classical and the modern perfectly in their redesign of the opera house.

She liked sparse things by nature, so there was one point she was wary of: the over-reliance on gothic sculptures such as the gargoyles lining the rooftop and the somehow menacing-looking cherubs perched on the edge of the box seats. However, she'd never stood on such a perfect stage. It was vast and the wood beneath her heels felt strong and sure, no splinters.

Most mesmerizing of all was the large, ornate chandelier that hanged majestically over the seats. Polished and sparkling, it gleamed an ominous golden-red in the dark.

She breathed in the vague scent a theater always has, of pressed velvet and polished wood. Her career was settled then. No more hopping from place to place; her daughter would have a home now. An odd one, to be sure, but conventionality was never to Giry's taste.

She stiffened suddenly. She glanced down into the steep orchestra pit. Was someone down there, singing? She heard singing. She looked to the left, and to the right. Nothing in the darkness.

The voice….

The voice was moving….

She glanced to the left. Her gaze landed on the box nearest to the stage, separate from the rest. A golden number five was above it. The singing settled there.

She knew what was happening without realizing it. She felt herself moving backstage, up the stairs, and through the doorway into the foyer, the voice louder and louder until she finally entered the box.

The voice was all around her now. Her heart beat wildly, yet no one was there, of course not, because it was—no, it can't be, it _can't—_she gasped as the words transitioned into another song. A song she knew too well.

Though the voice sang in a tongue foreign to most Europeans, she understood it perfectly.

"_Look at your face in the mirrors…they are there inside!" _

"The Ballad of Mirrors," she whispered faintly, her body quivering, her senses pounding.

With cat-like reflexes, she knew he was finally there. She turned around and he stood behind her.

She would not have recognized him were it not for his mask. It was a different mask than the silk one from court. No, this half-mask was finely made, out of what looked like molded leather combined with paper-mache. A tin alloy, perhaps, was used to make it shine like porcelain, elegant and austere. Like the rest of him. He had hair now, rich brown, clean cut, and slicked back. A wig. He was dressed in coat and tails, and was taller and more muscular now. A man.

"Erik," she said weakly.

With the familiar lewd sneer, he swept his cape over his arm as he bowed. "_Bonjour, Anahid."_

Then he flew at her and she felt him press something damp against her face.

* * *

><p><em>Julien was stroking her hair, staring at her with such intense reverence she felt her heart twist painfully.<em>

"_Anahid…" he whispered, lost in the sight of her. He buried his face into her shoulder and murmured against her neck, "Anahid…."_

"Anahid. Wake up, Anahid. Or shall I say Madame Giry now? Were you _ever _Madame Girard?"

Her eyes flew open. She was lying on some soft padding. There were long black wooden panels to the sides of her—

A coffin. She was lying in a coffin.

With that startlingly morbid realization, she shot up into a sitting position. Erik loomed over her, cat-like smile on the half of his swollen lips she could see. "I apologize for the unsettling bed, but I have no other currently. I get so few guests." The eerie laugh that still haunted her nightmares returned as he expressed glee at his own joke.

As she massaged away the rest of the chloroform pounding in her temples, she assessed her surroundings. Everything was cool, dark. There were only a few candles lit here and there, allowing her glimpses of a spacious lair with minimal furniture. An ornate throne was situated a few feet in front of the coffin. At the other end, where the candelabra sat, was a pipe organ.

Twisting around, she gasped as she took in the dizzyingly long portcullis that served as the gateway to this strange abode. Squinting, she could just make out that…that _lake_ there in the darkness. An old-fashioned gondola was moored on the concrete bank.

"Welcome to my home, five cellars beneath the opera house!" He announced, spreading out his arms theatrically. He threw his cloak onto the organ bench. "To celebrate, won't you have some port? You are my first visitor, after all." Another grim chuckle.

Her mind was still swimming a little. "Yes."

He looked at her quizzically amused. "You _will_ join me?"

She wrinkled her brow, shaking her head, trying to recall... "No…I meant yes, I did become Madame Girard. The first thing we did once we crossed the border into Bulgaria was marry with our own names. In a swift, secret ceremony." She shook out the rest of the fog in her eyes. "Then we took our assumed names once we reached Belgium."

He said nothing, simply stood there, smiling.

She stepped out of the coffin, and he was impressed how whatever had transpired in the past four years increased the impassive expression she schooled her features into.

At last she spoke. "I did not think to ever see you again."

He shrugged carelessly, brushing away some lint from his elegant sleeve. "I don't suppose I'd given you much thought at all until I decided the time was right to hire a new ballet mistress."

She betrayed no sign of surprise at his statement. "You are working with M. Lefevre, then?"

He threw his head back and howled with laughter. She was tempted to hush him like old times, then realized there was no need to down here, so cut off from all prying eyes and ears.

He stared out from behind his mask with searing amusement. "Me, working _with _that ludicrous man? He is but my puppet, my lackey. _I_ am no man's lackey now." His tone turned ferocious. "And I am not 'Erik' anymore. That creature is dead. I am the Phantom of the Opera!"

He pronounced it with more pride than even Naser had his title of shah. Giry would not allow Erik the pleasure of seeing her cowed by such a ridiculous moniker, so the only change in her expression was a skeptical quirked brow. "The Phantom of the Opera? How quaint. And how…?"

"And how did I earn this lofty position, you ask? I shan't bore you with details, dear lady. I'll only tell you that once M. Lefevre bought the opera house and was seeking contractors to redesign it, I offered my services, providing leverage with certain…_information _I gathered about his last business venture."

"Extortion, how lovely. And your terms included carving out a space of your own down here?"

"Exactly. And that he value my input when I see fit to impart it." The jerk of her features betrayed her momentary discomposure when all of a sudden that damnable Punjab lasso was again in his hands. "I have other methods to put him in line with when the prospect of his shady past dealings doesn't seem so horrible as the things I ask."

She closed her eyes. "Oh, Erik, I intended a fresh start for you."

She stepped back as he suddenly lunged at her, exposed side of his face contorted with fury. "Intentions! Intentions! I _spit _at your good intentions! All your intentions have ever given me is taking me back where I first started when I left home at eight years old: a freak to be gawked at and then abandoned."

She was fierce too. "But Julien and I didn't abandon you! You were the one to leave us!" She recalled the empty road to Bulgaria on board that merchant's cart. She and Julien were sitting in front with Erik in the back. A stop to feed the horses, and when Anahid checked he was gone.

She grabbed his arm now, shaking it, pretense of impassivity gone. "Why did you run away, Erik? Why?"

Though his half-face was empty of emotion she recognized in his tone the boy that rescued the songbird. "On your own, you and Girard had a chance. But with me and my miserable excuse for a face? The odds were not in your favor."

A short silence prevailed. Before a true sad smile reached her lips, the mocking darkness returned to his expression. "Not that my sacrificial act did poor Julien any good in the long run. Or shall I say 'Jules'? That was the name he went by, correct?"

She had by now emptied her own face again of any softness. "Yes."

"Julien Girard to Jules Giry. I must say, not the most original switch. Weren't you two worried at all that his government and yours may not be so easily bamboozled?"

She gave a slight shrug. "In all honesty, we knew that as long as we kept silent and out of political sight, our governments were perfectly willing to turn a blind eye. The arrests of two previously loyal agents so close to their countries' courts would serve as a national embarrassment more than anything else. The only real trouble was getting out before Naser's assassins could reach us. Once we were out of Persia and the countries surrounding it, we didn't worry too much about how closely our new identities hewed to the old. Antoinette has a similar cadence to Anahid, I liked it, and so there you are. We took our chances at a normal life."

He was leaning against the pipe organ now, arms crossed. "He working as an accountant and you teaching dance to slum children just outside Lomme, you mean?"

"You certainly know everything, don't you?"

"Yes," he said frankly. He turned serious and his voice quieted. "Except for one thing. Was Julien's death really an accident?"

Her expression didn't change, but her lips whitened and her eyes dimmed. "Yes," she said truthfully. "At least as far as I know." She laughed humorlessly. "In a way I almost wish it hadn't been. Then it wouldn't be as senseless as it was. At least he died a hero, pushing that old couple out of the way before the carriage hit."

"How touching," Erik said bitterly.

"Look," she stormed, composure and patience gone at any perceived jabs at Julien. "I've humored you enough. Why did you really want me here?"

He shrugged. "Like I told you, we need a new dance mistress. Since your husband's death, I've been following your career and I admire your gumption, though I must say, any linguistic expert could sniff you out in a second. Your accent is _too _precise, _too _obvious; you must learn to restrain yourself. But ah, I've offended you!" He pretended to look abashed as she bristled. "Let me instead return to flattering your ingenuity. What an image you've cultivated! Antoinette Giry, striking young widow who's danced in opera houses all over Europe with Madame Carina Valerius's famous dancing troupe, making your debut in Belgium, in Italy, in Austria! Tell me, what motivated you to leave that all behind, eh?"

"I've earned enough now to seek something more...stable. After all, I never intended to lead such a globe-trotting life once I left Persia. But we do what we can"-

"—Only to survive, I know. I heard you say that to Lefevre." At her questioning look he said emphatically, "It will do you well to remember that I have my eyes and ears open everywhere around my opera house." She noted the "my". "That will serve you well in your career here."

"Listen, Erik. I'm not sure I feel comfortable about this situation. I don't think it's a good idea. I'm not taking the job."

"Yes, you are," he said calmly.

"Oh? And what makes you so confident?"

"That I know you are Anahid Girard née Najami."

The blood rushed to her head but before she could explode he continued. "If I turn you in, even as embarrassed as the government is, they'll have to arrest you. If you at all try to turn the tables and accuse me, I have mastered the art of escape so well I could elude the authorities in a heartbeat. _You, _however, might just wriggle out of a death sentence, but in the meantime…what will become of your little daughter?"

His quick reflexes caught her hands just before the fingernails clawed at his face. Secretly he was unsettled seeing Anahid, always so staid and composed, wrestling in his grasp, face like an enraged tigress's.

"Monster!" She spat. "Mention my daughter again and I'll"—

"You will do _nothing," _he yelled, throwing her away from him forcefully.

They both stood glaring at the other, breathing labored.

At last Erik spoke. "I need someone I can trust to do my bidding. Someone who is not a frightened buffoon like Lefevre. Someone I can show this place to in case of emergency, who is familiar with my architecture and can recognize a trapdoor, see themselves through a labyrinth. You possess all these qualities, Anahid. But I must be sure of you, and this is the only way I see how."

There was such sickened loathing in her face he felt an ache. "Such low, contemptible"—

"_I will watch over her."_

She froze. "What?"

He stepped forward tentatively, watching her reactions closely. "Your daughter. I will watch over her here." Before she could jeer at his offer, he continued. "Think about it, Anahid. You are a widowed woman with no friends, no family. A dancer. What sort of future do you think awaits your child?"

She said nothing.

"Knowing you, you've got her dancing already. All right, very well. Bring her here. Get her started in classes. As she grows, I will watch over her, make sure no harm comes to her, ensure no rich count without any morals goes near her."

"Getting fatherly, are we, Erik?" She asked sardonically. "You're not even twenty, I'd wager."

"Yes, nineteen. Please don't mistake this as any genuine concern for your brat. What should I care for her? But just as I have my lasso to secure Lefevre's obedience in case extortion fails, you have my oath to protect your daughter in case extortion fails for you. You refuse, I go to the police and you lose your freedom and her in one fell swoop."

She wished she still carried her dagger concealed on her ankle. She would gladly, gladly gut him where he stood. However, one long deep look she gave him revealed there was something akin to…regret, sorrow in his rich brown eye.

Either way, she was trapped. "I suppose you win for now, Erik," she said resignedly.

He clapped his hands, the theatrical madman again. "Excellent, excellent! Come, I'll escort you above. I want you to memorize the route to and from my establishment, just in case you ever need it, you understand. Then a tour of the dressing room mirrors and the trapdoors, though they all haven't been built yet. It's a nuisance I will have to rebuild once the war with Prussia begins, since I'm sure their army will try to take such an ingeniously designed palace down a peg or two- yes, Anahid, I _am _sure that's what it will come down to in the end, mark my words and see if I'm wrong. Anyway, here's my boat!"

* * *

><p>Madame Giry returned to her hotel late at night, exhausted both physically from the detailed guided tour Erik had given her and emotionally from…from her whole life, really.<p>

"How is she?" Giry asked the daughter of the concierge who agreed to look after the child.

"She is sleeping, Madame. Such a sweet girl!"

Giry couldn't even spare a weary smile. "Thank you. You may leave." She handed the young woman her fee and the girl curtseyed, letting herself out.

Like one dying in a desert who sees water ahead, Giry rushed to her daughter's room.

She stood over the bed, looking at the strawberry blonde curls spread over the pillow, the small face turned to the side, mouth partly open and eyes gently shut.

Giry knelt beside the bed. With a feather light touch she stroked her daughter's hair. _Meg. My little Meg._

Just Meg was all she was. Not Marguerite, not Margot. _"I had a nurse when I was little," Julien said out of nowhere one evening as he fixed the cushions behind his pregnant wife. "Meg was her name. I never knew what Meg was short for. I'm not even sure what her background was, so it could have been a French Marguerite or even an English Margaret. All I know is that woman raised me from a babe to a young boy, was the only true kindness and motherly care I received in my household." His eyes were gloomy. "Then I was sent away to boarding school. When I came back, Meg was gone. I asked Mother and Father, and they shooed me away saying I had no need for a nurse now so she was dismissed. But to where? How should they know, they argued, it wasn't their business to know every detail about a former employee's life. They'd never even bothered to learn her last name."_

_He frowned. "Suffice to say, I never saw her again. But I swore one day I'd honor her." He looked at his wife, his hand on her stomach. "I know just plain 'Meg' isn't the most elegant name for a child, but if we have a girl"—_

_Her hand covered his. "Meg is a noble name. I should be honored if our child bore it." _

Two months after Meg entered the world her father left it.

Giry smiled at the tiny toe shoes in the corner. Erik as always was not wrong. Yes, Meg was dancing. But it was little Meg's own idea. It had been one of her first requests once she could form full sentences, having grown up in her three years watching her mother dance from the wings of various opera houses across Europe to support her one treasure.

Meg's safety was the one sole point of her mother's life. She was worried before the child was born that her Persian heritage would appear too overt to go unnoticed, but once she saw the shock of fair reddish-blonde hair and pale skin she was comforted. After all, her own mother had been a redhead with fair coloring, and Julien assured her everyone in his family shared his blonde coloring, especially his petite young petted sisters he'd left behind when his family disowned him, and again when he went into hiding. Though such coloring was not uncommon in Persia, it would still do much to convince outsiders that Meg was fully European.

"_My Persian yellow rose," Jules Giry said, touching his daughter's hair for the first time._

Madame Giry continued gazing at her daughter. She'd never loved anyone or anything as much as this child. What she felt for the girl twitching restlessly in her sleep was beyond what she once thought was the normal human capacity. Not even her vast love for Julien touched the all-encompassing devotion she felt for Meg. The child was quite simply her soul.

She pressed fervent lips to her child's temple, closing her eyes. "I will keep you safe, Meg," she whispered. "I will always keep you safe."

* * *

><p><strong>I'd like to give a shout out to tumblr users rjdaae, pleading-eyes, fdelopera, princeofconjurers, hopsjollyhigh, and neimhaille for helping me figure out what materials Erik's mask might be made out of. I kind of used an amalgamation of all you'se guys' suggestions. Oh, and an extra thanks to fdelopera for some historical info. If anything in these past chapters and the next has passed historical muster, it's thanks to this fabulous user.<br>**


	3. Chapter 3

In the winter of 1880, Christine Daae sat in her guardian's backroom, fingering her red scarf nervously. She was waiting for Madame Giry and her daughter to call on Madame Valerius from the Paris Opera House.

Christine was just eighteen, her birthday having passed in the second week of January. Although a woman by the standards of any day, the fawning treatment given her by her invalid guardian Madame "Mama" Valerius kept her frozen in a childlike state of naivete—that, and the fact she lived constantly in her close past.

Her father died four years before. She felt the sharp wound as though it were freshly delivered.

Gustave Daae was considered the finest violinist of his day, but was even more infamous for his rustic image and eccentric personality. Shunning the spotlight, scowling throughout his recitals at elegant halls, he nonetheless possessed a rich heart and a warm nature. The man who would barely look an influential critic in the eye while shaking his hand would play his instrument for hours for peasant children, joining them in their village dances.

He felt deeply. So did his daughter.

He never fully recovered from his wife's death. To Christine, Liliane Réhal Daae was a sweet but distant memory. Born in the slums of Paris, Liliane traveled across Europe as the star of Carina Valerius's famous touring ballet company. She was a beautiful, dark girl whose large, wondering eyes and gentle gestures carried Gustave's heart away more deftly than she could even dance. They met in Stockholm, and married three months later.

Gustave Daae, independently famous and wealthy through his work rather than through old familial connections (he was born from a line of poor farmers), married the young dancer to no public ado or outcry. Even the fact the girl was Jewish could not make a dent in the violinist's growing public acclaim.

The couple settled in Uppsala and were happy for a long period. Although Madame Valerius was disappointed her star dancer and dear friend retired to commit herself as Daae's wife, she nonetheless took it on herself to see her pet was taken care of. She, too, was native of Sweden, and let her and her wealthy husband's vast estate to the couple.

Professor Valerius, always acquiescent to his wife's wishes, patronized the gruff but kindly Gustave and paid him handsomely to play at village concerts. When Christine was born, the Daaes were ecstatic. "You are a masterful dancer, and I a masterful violinist," Gustave proclaimed to his wife. "Therefore, our daughter shall master singing."

Liliane replied sweetly in the affirmative, allowing him to give Christine lessons—while she taught the little mass of dark brown curls and large doe eyes ballet. These were Christine's strongest memories of her mother.

Liliane died of pneumonia when Christine was four weeks shy of her sixth birthday. Christine could never dance very well after that.

Gustave never spoke of his grief. The mourning transferred instead to his violin-playing, giving his music an added darker texture, filled with beautiful and dreadful things that thrilled each listener.

And so his acclaim grew. He toured the Scandinavian countries. But he never left there, until Christine was ten and Madame Valerius insisted the father and daughter accompany her and her husband to their vacation home in Perros-Guirec for the summer.

All the love and fervor Gustave had split equally between wife and daughter now fell all on Christine. Never were a father and daughter closer. When he saw her brown eyes shine with anticipatory wonder at the idea of the seaside, he could deny her nothing.

"Papa," Christine said to him on the train, her hand slipping into his, "Will the Angel of Music know where we are in case he wants to visit me?" She spoke seriously, as if inquiring after an important person she would like very much to be acquainted with.

With his usual hearty laugh, he pinched her shoulder, making her squeal. "Don't you think the Angel knows his business, girl? He'll find you true enough when you are ready. Until then, go to sleep and don't bother me." He finished this speech by suddenly tickling her stomach until she hiccoughed, ensuring she stay awake a little longer.

Christine took to the seaside as naturally as an Irish selkie, her father claimed. Mama and Professor Valerius would often wake to find father and daughter missing, and after inquiries to the staff, invariably found they'd retreated alone to the beach, Christine walking dreamily along the shore, singing to her father's playing from where he sat on a far off log.

They often ended their days this way as well. On one fine evening, the sky a blue covered in velvet, Christine walked even more absentmindedly than usual, the red scarf her mother had made her tied loosely around her neck. A group of Parisian tourists arrived that day, and the air was laced with pleasant chatter from cliffs and corners where the visitors congregated with their staff and callers as they wined and dined overlooking the sea.

She passed a group of young men, whose rambunctious wine-soaked singing died out at the ethereal, unearthly notes Christine sang.

All at once her singing stopped as an unexpected gust of wind carried away her most prized possession, making her cry out "My scarf!" with hands outreached. She watched dismayed as it floated into the waves.

"I'll catch it, my lady!" A good-humored, boyish, yet masculine voice cried out. She dodged a tall, slim, flying thing crashing clumsily into the waves, swaying on his feet. Through the dark mist, she could just make out a crown of dark gold hair and a well-muscled yet svelte back.

At last he emerged, waving the damp scarf in the air as revolutionaries would their flag. The cheering from the drunk boys was enthusiastic.

"Here you are, sweet lady!" He announced, stooping down to give it to her, rum on his breath. He was dripping wet.

She stepped back, voice caught, afraid and exhilarated.

The handsomest face in the world smiled down at her.

She could tell he was native to France by his accent. His bone structure could only be described by authors of the time as perfectly Grecian.

She didn't see this face for long. His wet hand came down on her curly head and ruffled it so that some of the curls fell in her eyes. Although the young man was obviously rather inebriated, he spoke eloquently and warmly. "I wouldn't let a little lady who sings so prettily lose such a pretty scarf. What ho, what a voice you possess, mademoiselle! Are you by chance the star at the Paris Opera House?"

"I—I"— Christine replied. She was staring down at her scarf, twisting out the water with her fidgety hands. Her cheeks were as crimson as the scarf.

He suddenly grabbed her gently by the arm, excited as he spotted something in the distance behind her. He said in a rushed whisper, "Don't mean to interrupt, mademoiselle, but do you see that man on the log over there, playing the violin?" His pale blue eyes were alight with eagerness. "That is—I can't believe it!—that is the great Gustave Daae! He's a marvelous violinist, simply the best in the world! I heard him five years ago when I was a child during a brief visit he made to Paris, and he's the tops! He doesn't go out much these days, a bit of a recluse—something I admire, you know, the gumption to say, 'to hell'—er, 'to the _devil_ with you lot! I go my own way.' To see him here, in good old Perros!" He was as excited as a little boy.

"Hzmfthuh", Christine mumbled quickly.

He blinked a few times. "Er, what was that, mademoiselle? I apologize, I think I must still have some sea water in my ear."

"He's my father," she said more clearly.

"I'm sorry, I still didn't get that. It sounded like you said, 'he's my father'."

"I did."

She thrilled at how this handsome face went suddenly slack with disbelief. Then he laughed out loud, which thrilled her even more. It sounded almost like her father's.

"Your father! Your father, you say? Well, no wonder you've got such a pair of top-notch pipes!" He made a steep bow, making Christine giggle. "An honor, Mademoiselle Daae."

She gave no reply at first, simply continuing to giggle, cheeks rosier and rosier. "Do you—do you want to meet him?" She asked shyly.

She was delighted anew by the boyish ecstatic light in his expression. "Me? Meet _him? _Oh say, I don't want to take advantage of our new acquaintance to"—

"Nonsense!" She surprised herself by saying. She never knew where she found her courage, but she took him by the hand and led him up the slope to where her father sat playing.

Sharing his daughter's dreamy nature, Gustave was so enraptured by his melody he'd neglected to notice the recent drama of his daughter's lost scarf and its subsequent rescue. He frowned warily as his dearest treasure dragged by her hand a handsome youth. Yet he found himself softening right away at the open friendliness the boy's face possessed.

With manly verve, the boy put forward his hand. "Monsieur, I am your most ardent admirer, Raoul de Chagny."

And thus the love of Christine Daae's life, her future husband and father to her children, professed more open admiration to her father than to her in their first meeting.

Gustave raised his bushy eyebrows, accepting the boy's hand. "De Chagny? Of the old family in Paris? Shouldn't you be a viscount, then?"

Christine saw the noble jaw stick out. "I'm a revolutionary," he said adamantly. "I reject all titles."

Christine watched pleased as her father, usually depressed and taciturn in the company of others, laughed with amused approval. "A revolutionary, eh? And at such a young age! How old are you, boy without a title?"

"Fourteen, sir." To the ten-year-old Christine, fourteen was a glamorous, adult age, perfect for a prince one admires from afar.

Gustave pointed authoritatively to a sandy spot by his log with his bow. "Sit, sir. You interest me. How did you meet this young ragamuffin of mine?"

"He rescued my scarf from the sea, Papa," Christine blurted out. She clamped down again as Raoul quickly collapsed at the spot indicated, lying on his side, staring up happily at Gustave.

Her father thanked him for his efforts. "My pleasure," the boy Raoul said honestly. "I've been hobnobbing with that loud crowd of sailors over there. My sisters and my brother disapprove of course, but what do I care? They're with the royalist majority and I'm not. I like good honest working people." He emphasized this by bringing his fist down into the sand. He still swayed from the rum, which endeared him to Gustave even more. "That's why I'm joining the Navy the first chance I get. To incite rebellion and bring France back to glory. Those fellows were just teaching me some sea chanties to get me ready."

"Will you sing us some?" Christine asked quietly.

Gustave approved of the blush that crossed Raoul's face here, denoting he knew what was proper for a young lady to hear. "Er, better not, Miss. I'd much rather hear _you _sing again."

"Yes, a splendid idea!" Gustave said, bringing his violin to his shoulder. "You sing to my playing, Christine."

"Christine. That's a pretty name," Raoul said in an off-handed pleasant way as he leaned back into his folded hands, staring out to the sea.

Christine's heart grew wings and flew out of her body.

She never sang so beautifully before. She brought tears even to her father's eyes.

From that day forward, Raoul de Chagny was a constant companion of Gustave and Christine Daae's. His older brother, his guardian, allowed him to take violin lessons once he learned it was the great Gustave Daae his little brother was whiling away his time with (given the man's dress and habits, and his brother's unconventionality, Philippe de Chagny first assumed Gustave was a grubby peasant).

Raoul took well to the violin, but in truth he spent most of the time sitting with little Christine in the attic, having picnics with Gustave as the older man regaled them with dark stories of the North, and their favorite, the children's verse about "Little Lotte".

Gustave always let little Christine sing her favorite lines:

"_But what she loved best, Lotte said_

_Is when I'm asleep in my bed_

_And the Angel of Music sings songs in my head_

_The Angel of Music sings songs in my head."_

"You _will _be visited by the Angel, my child," Gustave always insisted.

"Hear, hear!" Raoul agreed.

Christine would glow with pleasure.

Raoul felt no embarrassment that he, a young man of good family, spent the majority of his summer at the side of a rustic old man and his little girl. He would eagerly tell Gustave all about his political aspirations, his desire to socialize the national government and to lead another Paris Commune. Raoul would then tug on Christine's curls and challenge her to see which of them could stand on one leg the longest. He always let her win, and she knew it, and loved him all the more ardently for it.

For she was in love with this young man with all the genuine passion a ten-year-old can have for the dashing fourteen-year-old who saved her scarf from the sea. Each night, Gustave was amused to overhear her prayers before she tucked herself in bed, thinking herself unheard:

"…Please bless Papa, Mama in Heaven, Mama Valerius here, and Professor Valerius. Bless and keep Raoul de Chagny, and please make him fall in love with me. Thank you. Oh, and please give Mademoiselle Clothilde Reinard a pimple right on her nose." Mademoiselle Clothilde was a sixteen-year-old local belle Christine once heard Raoul describe as pretty as they passed by. Blushing, Christine would quickly retract the statement from her prayer, afraid of her own jealous temper.

Christine herself was not a beauty yet, aside from her lustrous curls and soft brown eyes. Her face was sweet but thin, and her long spindly legs made her taller than average for her age, giving her an overall gawky look. Coltish summed her up. At ten she of course did not possess womanly charm to compensate, but she was genuine, and she charmed nonetheless with her sincerity and her eagerness to please.

Raoul adored her as the little sister he never had, just as he loved Gustave as the playful father figure he did not possess with the kind but cold Philippe. Raoul often liked to tell Christine that he would keep a sharp eye on any future suitor of hers, and give the miscreants what-for if they should dare try to insult her honor.

Christine liked to pretend this was romantic jealousy, not brotherly concern, though she was no fool.

To the dismay of the three involved, the summer eventually came to a close, and Raoul had to leave with his family.

He approached the Daae duo as they sat at their usual log. He somberly shook Gustave's hand. "I can't tell you what your friendship means to me, monsieur."

Tears misted the violinist's eyes. "My boy, I feel like I'm losing a son."

"Oh, don't say that, monsieur! We shall see each other again, I know it!"

"Do you promise?" Christine asked, surprising them. She'd been so silent, staring at the sand at her feet. Now her large fawn-like eyes stared with teary appeal into the sea-blue eyes of the boy before her.

Swept up in emotion, Raoul planted a firm kiss on her curly head. "I promise, my Little Lotte." Scared of any more strong emotions he might display, he walked away, head down, hands stuffed stiffly in his pockets.

Once he was gone from sight, Christine sank to her knees and cried harrowingly into her father's lap.

Her heart had indeed flown away, and would it never come back?

"No," she said at night, staring at her ceiling. "No, he promised he'd come back. He promised."

And indeed he did, though three years would pass.

In the meantime, he kept up a steady correspondence with Gustave, always sending his love to his Little Lotte. Despite his earlier expectations, Gustave was enamored with Perros, and when Professor and Madame Valerius decided to retire to Paris, they left Gustave as permanent caretaker of their beachside estate.

There he worked on various compositions, all half-done and erratic. Christine often asked him if _his_ Angel would ever visit, and he'd swallow his disappointed anger and say, "Not yet, my child. He's waiting until you're old enough to come visit _you." _And he'd kiss her on the cheek and abandon what he was doing to give her another singing lesson.

Her voice grew more and more beautiful with each passing day. With both her mother dead and now Mama Valerius gone to Paris, Christine's dancing fell to the wayside, and she threw her heart and soul into her song. Passersby would invariably stop at the window of the Valerius drawing room, enraptured by the angelic, unreal voice of this girl so young as she practiced her scales.

Secretly Gustave worried about his daughter. Since Raoul's departure, she shunned all other company but her father's. It was all well and good to like a handsome older boy, but certainly after some months without his company such feelings should fade with the caprices of youth.

But Christine's did not. She thought and spoke of Raoul often, and disconcerted her father one night when he passed by her bedroom, hearing her whisper "Raoul…Raoul…." somberly into the darkness.

Otherwise she lived solely for her father. Gustave selfishly enjoyed her devotion, and in his weakness he never very strongly encouraged her to form ties with anyone else around Perros. There was no other family for her to maintain friendship with, and aside from the occasional visits from Mama Valerius when she felt it all right to leave her ailing husband, Christine spent all her time with her father.

Her years in Perros diminished her Swedish accent almost entirely, her mother's French roots beginning to show more prominently. Her dark eyes, curly hair, and slim figure fit the typical French image more than the fairer voluptuous one ignorant members of society associated with Sweden. "You are a regular Parisian," her father would tease her.

Christine blushed at these words, regarding Paris as a far-off, sophisticated mecca. Did Raoul like Parisian-looking girls…?

When she was thirteen he returned. It was a brief sentimental stop before he left for the Navy.

When she heard him arrive, Christine froze in the kitchen where she was preparing the tea, swaying as she heard his new deep, soothing baritone ring out his greeting to Gustave in the drawing-room. Right before she entered with the tray, she smoothed her muted pink skirt and checked her reflection in the mirror, her heart pounding so loudly it hummed in her temples.

Although her looks had certainly improved over the years—her face was a little fuller now, her dress more flattering to her lissome figure—she still was a bit too ungainly, her manners still guileless to the point of gawkish.

Still, it would have taken a far colder heart than Raoul de Chagny's not to be touched by the dewey-eyed look of sincerity and tenderness on the almost pretty face that awkwardly entered the room.

"Little Lotte," he said fondly, walking up and kissing her hand once she placed her tray carefully on the table. He graced her with a melancholy half-smile, a new expression.

He was seventeen now and looked like a man. He'd almost reached his full height, standing two inches taller than her father. His bone structure increased his resemblance to Adonis. He was astoundingly, devastatingly handsome.

"You've changed, Raoul," she whispered. She did not mean his mature looks alone.

There was a distant sadness to him now, a weary gleam in his ocean-blue eyes.

"So you became a viscount after all," Gustave said.

That strange, wry half-smile again. "It was Philippe's final wish. I could not deny him that."

Christine blushed furiously, ashamed of herself for forgetting to express her sympathies right away. "Oh yes, we'd heard about that! Oh Raoul, I'm so, so sorry."

The deep worry in her eyes—they practically said, "let me comfort you, _please_"—appealed to Raoul more than any words could. _Precious little Christine, _he thought, taking her hand and pressing it. She was still in his mind a cherished little sister.

"Pneumonia," Gustave said bitterly. "That's just what took Christine's mother from us."

This proved how closely Gustave felt to Raoul. Christine seldom heard her father refer to Liliane.

"I thank you both for your sympathies. It came on very suddenly. My brother was an old-fashioned soul, and we didn't agree on everything, but I loved and admired him just the same." He raised his eyebrows just then, sighing. "You may think I've abandoned my liberal leanings, but I promise you I haven't. But I've had to rally round and carry on the family tradition of title and land-holding now that I'm the only male heir alive." He shook his head suddenly, agitated. "But I'll be da—_hanged _if I have to stick around to do it." The old righteous fire was back, only with a harder edge. "Thus I'm joining the Navy anyhow."

"Do be careful, Raoul," Christine said, hand on his arm. "I'm too stupid to fully understand what's going on in the world right now and I know everything's settled down now that the Prussians are out of France, but…but…." Her eyes were so beseeching.

Raoul was both touched and heartbroken to suddenly see the truth of Christine's feelings so nakedly. With infinite tenderness he cupped her cheek. "Dear Christine," he said. "I'll return in one piece, you'll see." He winked, the ghost of his former carefree self.

An hour passed, a blissful, confusing hour for Christine's poor fluttering heart, and then Raoul stood to take his leave. He embraced Gustave tightly—Gustave had intimated before Christine came in that not all was well with him health-wise, and Raoul with a strange foreboding took the Swede in his arms as if for the last time—and said fond words of farewell.

Then once more with that mystifying, fascinating, heart-wrenching half-smile he kissed Christine on her cheek. "Mademoiselle, I shall never forget you," he gave her.

He left.

She couldn't say anything to her father. She ran to her room, almost tripping over her skirts as the tears blocked her vision.

The strange alteration in him, the sadness, did not in any way diminish his appeal to her. If anything, her adoration intensified. "We can make him happy, Father and I," she told herself that night as she lay awake, listening to the sea outside her window. "He'll come back to us and it will be as before. And I shall be so beautiful and kind he'll forget everything that ever made him sad, and father will kid the darkness out of him."

But a year later her father was gone.

The doctor said it was cancer of the lung. But Christine didn't remember this, or any of the details from his short illness. It was all a nightmarish blur, and were it not for the recently widowed Madame Valerius taking over, watching over father and daughter both, Christine doubted she would have survived the shock.

All she remembered was her last talk with him at his bedside.

He drew her near. All he said to her was what he'd said a million times before: "When I'm in Heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you." This time there was such a reverent, mystical light in his eyes that she shivered. She knew it to be true, because in his delirium, it truly was. Then his grip on her hand loosened and he was gone.

Mama Valerius came running at Christine's unearthly keening wail. The young girl looked like a madwoman from a Greek tragedy. Although Mama Valerius had felt misery at her husband's passing, such deep, all-abiding sorrow was an unknown entity to her.

Christine didn't speak for a week after. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, like a corpse herself. Madame Valerius feared for her sanity. The doctor, a wise man, said she was in shock and would come to by herself.

She did. She woke up calling for her father.

Madame Valerius took her to Paris.

Almost four years followed of recovery. Four years of Christine going through the motions for her foster mother, of lifeless singing and dancing lessons. Her voice lost its luster, its strength, its ethereal power. It was a limp dead thing, pitch perfect and pure of tone and empty, staggeringly empty. Weak and tremulous. She danced with the precision and grace of a lumbering goat. She was miserable when she was paying attention to what went on around her.

So she lived inside her mind instead.

In the vast seaside of her mind, there was everything—angels and fathers and dashing young men with the sun in their hair and the sea in their eyes. Raoul would rush in and save her from the brigands holding her hostage, whisk her away back to her worried father. "The Angel of Music led me here," Raoul would murmur in her curls, his hands firm around her waist. "He has shown me what a fool I've been. I've loved you all the time."

What came next in her fantasies made her blush with shame in the morning, yet their potent power turned her spiritually from a girl into a young woman—and into a beauty. She still retained the childlike mannerisms and attitudes, but there was a suppressed longing that was not a girl's.

She'd only half-given up believing in the Angel. Her father promised her...

But why should the Angel visit her when her voice was now so weak? Who was there to sing for now, with Father dead and Raoul...Raoul who knows where on the vast sea, with his shipmates? Internally she wanted to burst forth with melody, but the reality was too much for her, and nothing worthy of art came out.

Still.

Her father promised her...

Christine started from her reverie in Madame Valerius's home, hearing the visitors ascend the stairs. Madame Valerius was slowly ailing herself and seldom left her bed these days. She received her visitors there, a door linking her room to the backroom Christine now nervously occupied.

Christine heard voices and despite her ingrained sense of propriety, she flew silently to the door, pressing her ear there, listening. She still gripped her scarf.

Madame Valerius's wry laugh. "Antoinette, Antoinette! Lord, you haven't changed a bit: austere and majestic as always. Oh pooh, Madame, don't put on such airs. Kiss my cheek, my dear."

Madame Giry apparently acquiesced, then cleared her throat. "I regret your illness, Madame Carina. I regret too not being able to see you the past five years, despite our close approximation. But you are familiar with the rigors of theatrical life." Giry's voice was distant and imperious, and Christine had never heard such a crisp Parisian accent. She shifted self-consciously. With just her voice alone this woman made Christine feel like a common country-girl.

"Nonsense, nonsense," Madame Valerius responded. "The fault is mine. I've been preoccupied, as you of course know, with my dear adopted daughter. She's had a hard time of it, poor thing...ah, but speaking of daughters! Hello, mademoiselle," she said, changing the tone of her voice to the sweet notes Christine recognized she used with her.

A rustle of skirts. Madame Giry's daughter must be curtseying. "Hello, Madame. It is such a pleasure to see you again." Christine tilted her head. The voice was small, breathy, yet pert and full of warmth.

"Why, you're practically all grown up, Meg! Let's see, you were how old when I last saw you...?"

"I think I was about ten, Madame."

"Yes, ten, of course. And you are now...?"

"Not yet sixteen, Madame."

"Well, I must have told you back when you were ten that you are not to call me 'Madame'. Leave that title to your authoritative mother. I prefer 'Mama Valerius' and nothing else. Come here and kiss me, too."

The girl Meg moved with quick, graceful steps, her feet barely making any sound. She evidently echoed her mother and kissed Madame Valerius's wrinkled cheek.

"I hear you are quickly rising in the ranks of the corps de ballet, mademoiselle."

"Yes, that is true." There was neither false modesty nor vanity in her cheerful frank response. It was a fact: nothing more, nothing less.

Madame Valerius laughed again. "That takes you back, doesn't it, Antoinette?" Madame Giry must have nodded, for Valerius continued addressing Meg: "You have heard, mademoiselle, how your dear mother came to my rescue five years after my star pupil Mademoiselle Réhal eloped and left my company floundering without a proper leading lady? Your mother appeared out of nowhere to help me teach, and before I knew it, she stepped in as the star."

"Mother doesn't talk about it much, but I remember it a little myself. One of my first memories is watching her dance in...it was _La Sylphide, _wasn't it, Mother?"

"There were many, my child." Christine thrilled at the promise of tragic secrets and heartbreak that hid in the valleys of Madame Giry's deep voice.

"You have a very good memory then, mademoiselle," Valerius said. "You couldn't have been but three when your mother decided to retire here, leaving my poor troupe to wander unmoored once again. Five years later I followed her example and sold my company to that Russian outfit..."

Her voice trailed off, as it often did now, lost in her memories.

Madame Giry tactfully steered her back to the matter at hand. "Which brings us, Madame Carina, to Miss Christine Daae."

Christine's heart pounded behind the door, and she chided herself for her fear that the three next door could hear it.

"Oh yes," Meg eagerly interjected, concern in her small voice. "Please, tell us about her."

Christine felt shame burn her cheeks as she heard her adopted mother sigh hopelessly. A pause followed. Then she said, "Christine is a good child. A good, good child."

Another pause. Then rather unsentimentally, Giry prompted, "And?"

Madame Valerius was frank. "And she's totally lost all inspiration. You should have heard her voice when she was younger! Ah! She made the angels weep! But with her father's death..." she presumably shook her head.

Christine blinked back embarrassed tears.

Then came the most soothing, sympathetic tone she'd ever heard in a voice: "How awful for her!" It was the girl Meg.

"Yes, it has been a terrible strain on her," Valerius agreed. "She is a sensitive thing. Her father meant the world to her, and she has no other family. And I—well, we're very fond of one another, but I'm hardly the ideal company for a young woman at the age for society in Paris. What I would like, Antoinette, is to see her placed in the chorus." Despite her illness, Carina Valerius kept an ear open and knew that it was not Monsieur Lefevre or Monsieur Reyer to consult about a place in the opera—it was the forbidding and capable mistress of ballet.

Yet Giry's influence only went so far. "The Paris Opera chorus is perhaps the most competitive in the world," she replied. "It is notoriously difficult to enter. She can audition, of course, but not even the legacy her father leaves behind, or your patronage, is enough to secure her a spot there."

Christine didn't know if she was disappointed or relieved. The world outside Valerius's walls was a frightening proposition. She'd entered Paris a dazed orphan, neglecting to take in the city she'd fantasized about in her childhood. She wasn't sure she was ready to study it now.

Then Meg Giry spoke again, in a way that reminded Christine of a chirping, well-meaning little bird. "Can she dance like her mother did? If so, maybe we could get her a spot in the corps de ballet until her voice improves."

Madame Valerius sighed once more. "She can dance. But dance well? No." Although this too was not news to Christine, it did nothing to help her blushing and her stifled tears. Was she of any use to anyone? "She knows the steps and practices daily, but if you ask me if she has any great potential..."

Meg chirped again, eager now. "Listen, Mother! You can easily secure her a spot as understudy in the ballet. That way she can earn her keep but spend most of her energy working on her voice! Then when she's ready, she can try out for the chorus instead."

The other two voices fell silent, considering. Christine fingered the fringe on her bodice nervously, right above that pounding heart.

At last Madame Giry spoke. "It is doable. I can use my influence and that of the Daae, Réhal, and Valerius names to secure her a position as understudy."

"Ah!" Valerius cried, relieved. She clapped her hands. "A splendid compromise. I'm sure if coached correctly, Christine can sing as triumphantly as she once did, and dance passably enough. It is settled?"

"It is settled," Madame Giry confirmed.

Christine jumped as Valerius called her name. "Christine! Come here, my child!" Madame Valerius often found her own trumpeting voice a more valuable servant than a maid for fetching persons around the house.

Counting silently to three, Christine straightened like a soldier preparing for battle and with a sick face she entered the bedroom, leaving her scarf behind.

"Christine, dear! This is my old friend Antoinette Giry of the Paris Opera House, and her daughter Meg."

Madame Giry and Meg were as different as night and day. Madame Giry was all sharp angles and dark sad eyes, black hair, black clothes, tall frame. Her expression and bearing were aloof. Christine sensed there was much kindness lurking there, but for now she was too intimidated by the icy layer that covered it.

Meg Giry, on the other hand! Meg Giry was golden and pink, rosy with youthful prettiness. She was quite petite, and didn't look very at home in her cream-colored dress (Christine would soon learn that was because Meg was almost constantly in her tutu, and didn't know how to move naturally in longer skirts). Where her mother's features were harsh, Meg's were soft and lovely. She possessed a great profusion of blonde curls with reddish highlights, and her small full lips spread into a smile as wide and brilliant as sunshine.

She ran forward, taking Christine's hands in hers. "I am so glad to meet you!" Christine wondered if there was a disingenuous bone in this girl's body, since there was no doubt of the sincerity in her statement, the glad gleam that stared out of her merry, surprisingly exotic almond-shaped green-grey eyes.

Meg spread out Christine's arms and looked her over. "Oh, you're so beautiful!" Meg exclaimed. She turned her head suddenly to her mother, sprightly curls jumping. "Mother, isn't she beautiful?"

Madame Giry stoically inclined her head. "You are lovely, my child," she said.

Indeed, Christine had quite gracefully come into her own beauty. This was shown to much advantage in her quiet beige silk gown. Madame Giry was notoriously rigid with her girls in the ballet, and Mama Valerius had urged Christine to dress modestly—a needless precaution, since Christine did not own a flashy or flirtatious article of clothing in her entire closet.

Meg leaned in, staring her frankly and deeply in the eyes. Christine noticed a few faint freckles on her fair cheeks. "You've had a very hard time, Christine, I know. Is it all right if I call you Christine? I'd very much like to be your friend." She squeezed Christine's hands reassuringly. Her dimples showed as she smiled, and Christine felt tears prick her eyes for very different reasons than before.

"Christine," Madame Valerius said. "How does dancing as understudy in the ballet sound to you? From there you can practice more until you're ready for the chorus."

Christine blanched now that it was her turn to speak. She was far more composed now than in her younger years, but she still struggled with her ancient shyness. She nodded, and licked her lips before answering. "I...I should be honored to join your ballet in any capacity, Madame Giry."

Meg squeezed her hand again as she trembled.

Something in Christine's doe-eyed manner appeared to soften Madame Giry somewhat. A smile almost graced her features. "I will be glad to have you. But remember, being the daughter of the late Gustave Daae and Liliane Réhal is not enough. You must work hard, both at dance and in your singing if you want to make anything of yourself."

Christine nodded again, hypnotized by the authority in her voice. "Yes, Madame. I shall."

"We have all sorts of wonderful singing teachers at the opera house," Meg told her. "You'll have no trouble at all, I'm sure!"

"Of course she'll be staying here with me, not in the dormitories," Mama Valerius said to Madame Giry.

Giry didn't seem to think much of this arrangement, but only said with a vague haughty air, "As you wish." She stepped toward Christine, and Christine desperately tried to control her trembling. Madame Giry studied her closely. Then she said, "Rehearsal begins at eight o'clock sharp tomorrow morning. I do not tolerate lateness." With that, she inclined her head to Christine and went over to Madame Valerius's bed to kiss her goodbye.

_Tomorrow. Tomorrow. No, no, _Christine's mind screamed. _It's too soon. I...I don't want it. I don't want anything. I want to run to my room and sob and sob in Father's lap and I don't want anymore disappointed glances or anymore whispered remarks or-_

The girl called Meg cupped her cheek fondly. "You'll be all right now, Christine," she said in that soft warm voice again. Her face was so pleasant, so kind. It worked on Christine's spirit like a balm. Meg gazed into her eyes as if she could read her thoughts—and passed no judgement, harbored no disappointment. There was only compassion and good humor. And for the first time since Gustave's illness, Madame Valerius saw a true smile cross her ward's face.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I know I've taken some great liberties here, like making a four-year age difference between Raoul and Christine. That's because to me, in the stage show Raoul seems so...adult, while Christine still has a bit of the child to her. Of course she grows up in the course of the show, but still, I kind of like my headcanon where in the stage show Christine nursed a puppy-dog crush on an oblivious but affectionate older Raoul.**

**In Leroux Christine's father is never famous, but since Andre knows who he is in the musical, I decided to change that detail as well (along with making Mama Valerius a former dance mistress-I thought that would be a good way of tying her character to both the Daaes and the Girys, and explain why Christine can dance ballet in the musical).**


	4. Chapter 4

Simplicity is often the core of heroism. Meg Giry seldom stopped to wonder if she could accomplish the things she did in her life. She simply did them.

Compassion, observation, and curiosity were traits that quickly proved dominant in her, cultivated in large part by her mother's behavior and the strange happenings around the opera house, her home.

That's not to say Madame Giry encouraged any of these traits; in fact, quite the opposite: she did all she could to hamper her daughter's wild inquisitive nature, her perhaps over-soft-heartedness when it came to her fellow dancers. But like many parents discover too late, marked discouragement often leads to that same undesired behavior, even in the most obedient child.

And Meg did struggle to be obedient. However, her success depended on how strongly her personal convictions conflicted with her mother's commands.

Madame Giry was a good and loving mother, though it must be said her behavior and attitudes toward Meg mimicked those of a father in that day and age, not what society particularly associated with a doting mother.

She was protective of Meg and strict; Meg never danced a role she wasn't qualified for. Giry was more concerned that Meg's basic vital needs were met rather than coo over her accomplishments, teach her ladylike habits, or gossip with her about the male species. As long as Meg was well-fed, chaste, respectable, and—of course she cared about this—overall happy with her lot, Madame Giry did not concern herself overtly about the subtler aspects that make up a personality. Therefore, though Meg loved and respected her mother, she looked to herself to nurture her own native qualities of kindness and a bravery she herself was not aware she possessed until much later.

Madame Giry is not to be blamed for any unconscious neglect of Meg's internal life, for what choice did the widowed mother have? With no second income, and one of the most famous ballets in the world solely in her hands—along with the various duties assigned her by the Opera Ghost and surviving Prussia's siege of Paris when Meg was only about six years old—Giry simply did not have the time to cultivate the tenderness and gentleness girls look for in their mothers. Luckily for Madame Giry, Meg never felt the lack: she held those traits within herself. She did not remember much of the shelling near Paris or the gnawing hunger when Prussia tried to starve out Paris's resistance, but there was in her makeup the traits of a survivor, a fighter.

Despite her preoccupation with her duties, it did not escape the girl's mother how like her father young Meg grew. It wasn't only his coloring she inherited. She lacked the bitter cynicism thrust on Julien through his experiences in the French court, but she did inherit his intrepid, adventurous spirit. The same impulse which led Julien to the trapdoor outside the palace that night passed to his daughter, who in her time would descend through trapdoors into unknown domains without giving it a second thought.

Meg's childhood in the opera house mirrored that of Alice's experiences in Wonderland. A matter-of-fact and level-headed girl, Meg soaked in the high drama, hectic pace, and grand spectacle of the world around her with straightforward logic as her companion. She was there at age nine when the lead baritone for _Don Giovanni_ showed up drunk ten minutes before the curtain rose, she was there at age seven when the former prima ballerina wailed for her wayward lover and threatened to throw herself from the rooftop if he never returned, and she was there at age twelve when an unlucky stagehand accidentally set a backdrop on fire.

She quickly became adept at handling matters of emergency, though she could fly into hysterics as quickly as the next ballet girl. She was a very reactive person, far too guileless to obscure her emotions when not onstage. Yet cowardice was unknown to her. In effect, she was the first to scream when spotting a mouse in the dressing room, but the first to corner it with a chair, corralling the other girls behind her.

Heroes don't often come in the shape we expect them to. We are trained to think of heroes as physically strong and stalwart with a magnetic, powerful presence. Meg, meanwhile, with her petite frame and girlish earnestness, possessed in person a presence "no more pervasive than a kitten," as Thomas Hardy wrote of his own heroine in _A Pair of Blue Eyes_.

Like her mother, Meg had the ability to blend so well into the background she could be called a wallflower for all her pretty looks. She apparently adhered to the adage that young ladies should be seen and not heard—except on multiple occasions. For in an instant she would command all eyes onto her graceful figure when onstage, or speak up when she felt an injustice was served.

She'd practically been born performing, and without any strenuous effort on her part, she became a master of disguise, of slipping easily into another identity. Perhaps that's what helped her develop such an acute empathy for others. Either way, what took years for dedicated actors to master was simply a way of life for her, a blink of an eye to enter another skin.

Her early and constant training was evident in her movements, too. There was perhaps never a more physically graceful individual. She stood in the ballet fourth position even in repose. Yet she never appeared mannered or unnatural. She simply gave the impression of a quiet, ethereal fairy with a wide-eyed look of curiosity on that charming face.

So ingrained was dance in her that she seldom consciously thought of it as her calling. Her instinct to dance went deeper than a mere calling. It was who she was. She danced almost more than she walked. She loved it surely, but it was the inborn love one has for breathing clean air, for the ability to think and feel.

She possessed the natural heroic traits of courage, perseverance, and kindness, but true heroes also lack one or two weaknesses common to the human race. Meg did of course have flaws, including impulsiveness, untempered curiosity, a compulsion toward living too vicariously through others, and a tendency therefore to play the busy-body. Yet one flaw she lacked which was particularly peculiar in the theatrical world in which she moved was jealousy, both personally and professionally.

It is probable that her very upbringing in the highly emotional opera house weeded out envy in her. She instinctively learned that there would always be a dancer who could do different things better than her—for example, La Sorelli with her tall, flexible body contorted herself into angles and positions Meg could not easily master, and was also better able to take the longer leaps that were becoming more fashionable in contemporary ballet. Yet Meg was cognizant of the fact her smaller, quicker body handled the subtler gestures of swift turns and pirouettes better than Sorelli could, and she was a better actress, too. Instead of sneering with envy at her competitors, Meg learned to simply play up her own strengths, never to imitate.

People felt this within her, and as she was not perceived as a conscious threat, Meg quickly became many performers' confidants. This applied especially to her fellow dancers. Thanks to Madame Giry's unusually rigid surveillance and Meg's generosity of spirit, the corps de ballet in the almost twenty years Madame Giry taught were uniquely close and friendly, with very little catty backstabbing.

If Madame Giry stepped into the role of the conventional strict father figure to both her daughter and the ballet girls, Meg stepped into the role of den mother. She was such a mixture of the outwardly childlike and inwardly mature that the girls depended on her for moral strength and gossiped with her with equal abandon.

One of the first girls to gain the benefit of Meg's unofficial sponsorship was Cecile Jammes. A young, lovely girl of African descent, she showed up to the yearly audition for the ballet at age thirteen, shivering with fright as she took in the pale white skin of the majority of the dancers gathered to try out. Looking down at her own dark skin, she nevertheless steeled herself and approached a group of dancers near a stage manager, and in a voice she hoped was steady inquired where she was to join for inspection. She was greeted by open mouths of silence. Then the stage manager told her curtly she might as well face the fact there would probably be no room for her and the girls looked away, barely attempting to stifle their giggles.

Only one, who was already a prominent member of the corps, did not laugh or smile. This one followed Jammes as with eyes burning with tears she quickly turned away and headed for the exit.

"Wait!" The young girl grabbed Cecile's arm. She turned to see Meg's friendly, sympathetic face. "Listen," Meg whispered. "Do you really want to audition? Then come along! I'll take you directly to Madame Giry. She's my mother, and very understanding."

Cecile couldn't help the slight glee combating with anxiety in her breast as the girls who'd just stared at her with such disdain gaped as Madame Giry's daughter escorted her directly to her mother.

After Jammes's solo audition in front of Madame Giry, the austere ballet mistress told her that while she needed to work extra hard to transform her dancing from that of a calf in a field to that of a gliding swan, she was glad to welcome her to the ballet chorus. As if in a dream, Jammes walked back to the stage manager with Meg, who whispered that she'd never heard her mother give a new dancer such praise.

Very few of the girls from the original audition made the ballet.

When despite Madame Giry's precautions a quiet girl named Elodie Moncharmin became pregnant with a married count's baby, it was Meg who visited her at her flat each week, bringing sewing she could work on for fair pay. Meg would sit and drink tea with the single mother, chatting as though nothing were different. She always brought a new rag doll for Elodie's little girl.

Even La Sorelli, the principal dancer of the ballet who felt unending insecurities about her age, her younger fellow dancers, and her career in general, could harbor little ill will toward 'little Meg'. Sorelli would quite often use Meg as an audience for airing her grievances, bemoaning her various idiotic suitors, her sick mother always demanding money, and the incompetence of the staff. Yet despite this display of camaraderie, it must be said Sorelli still kept a close eye on the Giry girl the more and more talented her dancing became.

There was only one aspect of the opera house that filled Meg with a true sense of terror and disquiet. That was the menacing figure of the Phantom of the Opera.

She could scarcely remember a time when he was not the dark twilight zone of danger on the typically sunny horizon of her life. He decided to make his presence universally felt soon after she arrived at age three, heckling from the rafters, casting his shadow from behind backdrops, and allowing glimpses of his cape swoop past corners, and letting the thud of closing trap doors resound behind him. He took to sending letters not only to Lefevre and Madame Giry, but also to Reyer who soon took over as artistic director, and also to prominent cast members who earned his ire with their incompetence.

Meg, of course, did not know that her utter innocence as she grew older was thanks in large part to this figure that terrified her. Although she possessed a level-headed nature and Madame Giry's hawk eyes watching over her, she seldom was forced to use her own wits to evade lecherous suitors. They simply never came near her.

Madame Giry never inquired into what methods Erik used to procure the absence of men in Meg's life. The mother simply took it as a matter of course.

Giry's already naturally taciturn personality became increasingly aloof and gloomy the longer she worked for the opera house and its unofficial owner. She'd seen peoples' careers end in an instant over a minor mistake, and more often than not she'd been the one carrying the letter spelling their doom. She watched as Lefevre's hair turned completely gray as the Opera Ghost demanded an ever-growing salary. She'd seen Joseph Buquet turn into a raving drunk after stumbling back from the cellar, seeing what no man wants to encounter in the dark, alone and unarmed.

Throughout this endless abyss of intrigue, Meg remained the only ray of light in the twisted labyrinth that was her mother's life.

Meg knew her mother had some sort of connection to the ghost and it left the young girl baffled. She'd tried pressing once or twice, but it wasn't until her fourteenth year, when Joseph Buquet claimed to have seen the ghost, that her mother took her aside. "You are a smart girl, Meg, and you are no doubt aware there is someone here who goes by the name of the Phantom of the Opera. No, it is not an invention of Lefevre's or the press. He is real and he is dangerous. I can't tell you how I know or any more than that, just remember: if, for whatever reason, you find yourself in one of the cellars underground (which you'd better never do, young lady), put your hand to the level of your eyes."

This was so completely unexpected that Meg blinked for a moment, rattled. "My hand...?"

"To the level of your eyes. The Punjab Lasso. Now enough. Go and rehearse." And her mother disappeared into the shadows backstage, leaving her daughter dumbstruck.

"My hand to the level of my eyes? The Punjab Lasso?" She looked cautiously around her, shaking with fear. Then straightening her back and with her native courage in her eyes, she followed her mother to the dance studio, chanting inside her head: "Hand to the level of my eyes. Hand to the level of my eyes."

She followed instruction well when she wanted to.

Girls who entered the theater from the outside were always initially dazzled by the so-called splendor within. For Meg, who grew up with the splendor and therefore considered it the norm, she found her mystery and danger in contemplating the Phantom. She collected all the rumors she could about this weird figure, trying to work out which were likely true and which were utter fabrication. So far, every story had these same ingredients, that the Phantom bore a face so hideous it needed a mask, and he possessed the power to kill with a magical lasso. Although not superstitious by nature, the combination of her mother's words and the evidence all around her made Meg the leading believer of the Phantom.

Of the greater mystery surrounding her mother and her past, Meg was completely ignorant. She knew what she was told: her father had been an accountant who died when a carriage hit him, and her mother a dance teacher who took to the stage to make ends meet before coming here. Meg knew little else about her father. There was a portrait of him, grainy and indistinct, that her mother kept hidden in a cupboard.

Once or twice Meg had tiptoed out in the night and watched from behind her partly open door as her mother lit candles and sat down at the cupboard, staring dry-eyed and motionless at the handsome blurred face in the frame.

For all her courage, Meg never was able to ask her mother much about Jules Giry.

Otherwise, Meg continued to dance, continued to grow. Her potential was obvious. Everyone there knew her at least by sight. She was part of the opera house's subconscious, its best and its most fantastical and its most unseen elements. She had even become an unnoticed but intrinsic part of the hidden figure's soul who watched from Box 5. Her dancing was imprinted on him as much as the very columns and stage he himself had crafted.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I know my format might be a little jarring right now, since it seems primarily like a series of character vignettes. I'm going to keep that up a little longer before delving into the events of the show. Then I promise an actual plot will develop, I swear!  
><strong>

**There's a theory I ascribe to that ALW!Meg shares the physical characteristics of Leroux!Jammes. So in my universe, ALW!Jammes shares some of Leroux!Meg's physical characterstics (only much prettier). There's a popular idea that Leroux!Meg was a person of color, so that's why I decided to make Jammes of African heritage. Even though I'm not entirely convinced a poc Meg was Leroux's intention, I certainly like the idea.  
><strong>

**I borrowed the idea for "wallflower" and other little details about Meg's character from stuff the great Brianne Kelly Morgan said about the character on her blog. So a lot of credit belongs to her. **


	5. Chapter 5

A good hero is often attracted to those troubled and in distress. This can either be a flaw or a virtue: a flaw if the hero exploits another's weakness to better play the hero, a virtue when the hero wants to help the troubled friend find her strength.

Luckily, this was Meg Giry's virtue when it came to Christine. She saw the sorrow and the fragility, but she knew with proper nurturing Christine could flourish. For Meg also saw Christine's strengths, something indefinable but undeniably present. Perhaps it was the way that despite her trembling, Christine met Meg's mother with soldiers squared.

Christine's adjustment to the opera house was a rocky one. Her first weeks confirmed her greatest fears. Her poor dancing earned scoffing from dancers who resented Christine's placement as understudy without the usual rigorous try-outs while they'd been forced to undergo countless grueling auditions, and Christine also had to contend with the strained disappointment in Giry and Reyer's eyes.

The only member of the throng genuinely encouraging, nodding to her when she was uncertain with bright, faithful eyes was Meg Giry.

Without realizing it, Christine quickly became dependent on Meg for moral support. Never before had anyone needed Meg so much, and naturally therefore the young dancer grew to love Christine more than she had any other friend. They both met each other's needs: Meg met Christine's need for support, while Christine met Meg's need to be helpful.

If either were inclined toward possessiveness or vanity, this could have become a very unhealthy balance. As it was, each were genuine in their desire to do better and be better individuals, and were too swept up in their careers to fall into a truly co-dependent friendship. They felt a kinship between them that they both lost a father and only had their mother figure to cling to of their family. Meg, of course, was too young when she lost her father to greatly feel the loss, but she could sympathize with the stranded and isolated feeling encasing Christine.

Whereas many confident people prefer their less sure friends to remain needy in order to boost their already inflated self-worth, Meg right away tried to help Christine become more independent. Still, her good intentions and impulsiveness sometimes did more harm than good. In her eagerness, she set Christine up too quickly with too many singing instructors. The results were always the same: Christine's nerves and lackluster delivery failed to endear her to each instructor who let her know that in no uncertain terms. She'd end up in a small corner of the dance studio with Meg after each unsuccessful lesson and each dismissal from various teachers, clutching her friend's hands and crying.

Meg would stroke her dark curls, her feeling of responsibility increasing.

She took to ingratiating Christine to the other dancers. It took some doing, and not everyone was won over. But Christine shared Meg's sincerity with an added vulnerability that made some of the more tender-hearted dancers protective.

What also helped was Meg's discovery of Christine's love for storytelling.

They had been rehearsing alone in the studio not long after Christine's arrival, Meg coaching Christine as she tried to memorize the intricate turns and steps to the choreography. During a much-needed break, Meg prodded Christine for more information about her background and her favorite pastimes.

Flush with reluctance, Christine admitted, "I like telling stories I heard from my father."

Meg latched onto this at once. "Tell, tell!" The little hand that squeezed her arm and the wide eager eyes reminded Christine of that faraway attic of her childhood. Her voice faltered at first, and she'd lose the thread of her tales, but Meg's attentive audience and her own love for the folktales of her youth soon took over. She lost herself describing the korrigans dancing in the moonlit skies, the Norwegian king in his little boat, and various stories about dark winter ghosts of varied friendly and fiendish natures.

So enthralling were the tales and their narrator that Meg was wrapped up in every word. In these moments they weren't young women on the cusp of adulthood but true children.

Before and after rehearsals with the other girls, Meg encouraged Christine to repeat some of what she told Meg. Frozen at first being the center of attention in a group she was only slowly gaining acceptance in, Christine nonetheless enthralled the petite rats in the same way.

At this point in time, ghosts were particularly in vogue with the ballet girls, as the Phantom was paramount not only in Meg's mind but all over the opera house. Once Christine would begin her yarns, another girl would pipe up about how "that reminds me of the opera ghost's tricks, surely!" Or "yes, the korrigan or whatever-you-call-it rising out of the mist is just like how Joseph Buquet described the Phantom appearing down in the cellars!"

"I don't think the ghost much likes to be talked about," Meg would put in warily, eyeing the rafters and remembering her mother's words. _He's real, not a ghost._

She knew her mother worried that the day would come when Buquet, too intoxicated, could not stop himself from describing that face. Both mother and daughter feared the inevitable outcome should that ever happen.

Christine was at last tolerated on the whole. Each member of the ballet corps, either permanent or working like Christine as an understudy, had their allotted place: Meg was the den mother, Cecile the outspoken one (who'd earned her place proudly since the day of her triumphant audition), Jeanne the gossip, Adele the clown, Nynette the frightened squealer, etc. Christine was soon deemed the dreamer.

Christine warmed to the title with equal parts embarrassment and gladness to belong in any small way. Then that very dreamy nature would distract her from her new friends and the opera house, taking her miles away from rehearsal, from backstage gossip.

Not long after the subject of the Phantom first came up, Meg took her aside, near Christine's dressing room.

Mama Valerius, intending to make Christine's work at the opera house as tolerable as possible, used her influence to procure the girl her very own dressing room. This only accomplished increasing her unpopularity at the time. The other dancers were enraged. "She's just an understudy," they all fumed, indignant this talentless leach should be graced with her own room just because of her famous last name, while they sweat and struggled together all in one compartment.

Still, a combination of Madame Giry assuring the girls that this way they'd be cramped one less person, along with the fact the girls gradually became fonder of the sweet Swedish girl, made them less spiteful. What also helped was the fact this dressing room was so far away from the others—no girls envied this isolation with rumors of the Phantom so rampant.

It was this topic Meg spoke to Christine about. "You know, Christine, there really is a Phantom."

For all her dreamy nature and love of ghost stories, Christine was surprisingly straightforward in everyday conversation. "Now, Meg...isn't that a little too far? An actual Phantom?"

Meg by now trusted Christine more than anyone else outside Madame Giry, so she whispered, "My mother knows him somehow." Before Christine could question this, Meg added, "I don't know how she knows him. She won't tell me. But Christine, whatever you do, be careful!"

Christine shivered unwittingly. "What do you mean?"

Meg looked around in the darkness, then satisfying herself they were as alone as possible, she whispered again, "I think he lives underground, in one of the cellars. Don't go down there, whatever you do! And if you do, raise your hand to the level of your eyes! Something about a Punjab lasso."

Christine shook her head, positively perplexed. "I simply don't understand."

Meg looked a little abashed. "Well, neither do I, not really. I'm just repeating what Mother told me. Please don't repeat this to anyone! I don't want to get her into trouble, you understand, I just want to make sure you're safe!"

This earned a loving embrace from her friend.

Not long after, Christine revealed her own secret to Meg, a secret she made Meg swear not to tell anyone: the story of the Angel of Music.

They were sitting on the floor of the Girys' quarters after an impromptu practice session. Giry was out settling a dispute between a costumer and a dancer, leaving them alone to chat and stretch their tired limbs. In a soft voice, Christine told Meg that the Angel of Music was a sort of muse sent from Heaven that gifted deserving artists with genius.

"Christine," Meg chided. "You said it was silly to believe in the Phantom, yet here you are, believing in Angels!"

Christine shifted, reddening. "I...I don't...it's not like I really believe in an actual angel exactly...but...well...maybe some sort of spiritual event _does_ take place in real geniuses that's sort of _like_ being visited by an angel."

Meg tilted her head, thinking it over. "Yes...I suppose I could see that."

Christine murmured, "Anyway, it's something my father used to tell me."

"Oh," Meg said softly, understanding dawning. She placed a hand over Christine's. "I see. I didn't know. I'm sorry. Your father sounded like a very wise man, so who knows! Maybe he will help you, in his way."

Christine smiled sadly but gratefully at her friend.

More than a year passed, each day cementing their close friendship further. They grew from young girls into young ladies.

The popular but unspoken consensus at the opera house was that they were the principal beauties—but different breeds of beauties. At seventeen, Meg retained the childlike contours of rounded cheek that denoted her an adorable beauty, and the exotic tilt of her sometimes green-grey, sometimes blue-grey eyes and the hint of curvaceousness to her petite form lent her sensuality. Christine, at nineteen, was a classical beauty, her refined features, tall, lithe form, and remote demeanor giving her a pervasive ethereal air.

Not that the features of one was totally lacking in the other. Meg's graceful movements and the way the light hit her flowing golden-red curls often evoked the ethereal feeling most closely associated with Christine. And when a melody's dark, slow undercurrent pulsated in just the right rhythm in Christine's ear, a close observer would note a gleam of sensuality in those deep brown eyes. Sometimes dark, mad fantasies tormented Christine's soul, which would increase the subtly sensual expression about her features, often so easy to miss.

As Meg grew older, the babyish curves to her face would smooth and thin and heighten the classical and exotic allure to her features, and her body would become leaner and more muscular while still retaining the curves that were already turning the heads of particularly brave members of the Opera Populaire. Christine's beauty would increase in its classical refinement, along with a serenity about her that very few of her class achieve. It was a serenity often shaded by deep periods of melancholy that threatened to overwhelm her, but those who loved her soon ushered back that deep calm sea she floated in.

Yet it remained presently that Meg was the one, physically, that burst with girlish youth and ripeness, while Christine looked the more mature, the more gothically constructed heroine. Christine always physically gave the impression she was a few years older than she was, Meg a few years younger. Therefore it would have been a comical sight indeed to see the two girls as they so often were, with Meg taking Christine's hand almost as you would someone blind, Meg the leader and the maternal and Christine the follower and the child, were it not that their personalities—in many ways diametrically opposed to their physical appearance—were so well known around the opera house, and easily read in the subtle shades of their expressions and gestures.

How haughty Christine could have looked in her imperious, regal beauty were it not for the soft luster in her warm dark eyes, the two delicately molded lips always halfway open like a sleeping child's, the lost expression she wore. How insipid Meg could have looked with her full pouty lips, her mass of strawberry blonde hair with the ribbon, her small frame, were it not for the grave keenness in the face, the quick, decided movements of her body, the sharply cut lines of her almond-shaped eyes.

Despite Madame Giry's precise accent and Meg's fair coloring, many around the opera house assumed they probably had a drop or two of foreign blood in them. This did not worry Madame Giry much, since most assumed it was either Spanish or gypsy blood. Although she remained fair in color, Meg inherited from her mother Oriental features, such as her eye shape and the soft curve of her nose and lips, both smaller than her mother's.

This so-called exotic air about Meg was contrasted with her odd combination of frankness and chasteness. She was often quietly thoughtful in manner, while still humming with pent-up energy. Madame Giry felt that Christine with her slow movements and demure ways was a good and calming influence on her daughter, whom Giry likened to a happy but caged lark, content to trill away but wouldn't object if the door to her cage were left open.

Despite their growing beauty, neither Christine nor Meg was very interested in the ballet girls' gossip about men. Meg was sentimental when it came to reading novels or watching operas, but for herself she was not in the least romantic. She saw too many love stories explode backstage at the opera house to hold many fond fantasies of indulging in any of her own, particularly when she considered what sort of life romance led such gentle and naive girls like Elodie to.

As for Christine, there still remained but one shadow of a man she longed for in that way.

She'd long since confided in Meg about Raoul. The story of Christine's one-sided infatuation enthralled Meg just as much as her other tales had.

Shortly after her sixteenth birthday Meg became lead dancer of the corps de ballet, and 1881 saw an increase in her solos, both in the ballets and in silent roles in the opera. Reyer and Lefevre had more a hand in this than Giry. They both noted the young girl's talent and decided another pretty face made prominent on the stage could never hurt ticket sales. Christine, meanwhile, was still understudy in the ballet, only her voice had improved just enough that she was now seriously preparing to audition for the chorus. The thrill that gave the ever-sickly Mama Valerius was more of a sweet triumph to Christine than any personal milestone.

Therefore both girls were in an optimistic frame of mind when New Year's Eve 1881 approached, and with it preparations for the yearly masked ball. Meg's excitement sprang from her love of anything bright and alive with music, where you could dance to your heart's delight in any array of loud costume. Christine always held out hope that a certain sailor might appear, though she hadn't word from him since he left for the Navy almost seven years past.

Although Meg was usually too eclectic to settle on a particular theme for the ball, whether it be princess, fairy, or animal, she decided that year to dress as a Dresden shepherdess—her mask perched on a small makeshift shepherd's hook. Favoring the color pink, her dress was a frilly explosion of the color, lacy bows embedded along the hem of her skirt.

Christine chose Diana, goddess of the moon and the hunt. Compared to Meg's busy costume, Christine's was sleek and simple, in the Grecian style. She wore a tiara with a silver crescent moon on it, a bow and arrow of the same sparkling color embroidered on her gown. Pauline, the chief costumer for the ballet, suffered her usual numerous breakdowns and fits making sure all her girls were ready in time, frustrated that the fittings were often disturbed by the girls bursting into giddy guffaws, flinging precious material at their co-horts.

Still, the ball began just as everyone fit into their custom-made arrangements. Taking each other's hands, Christine and Meg dived in.

The festive cheer seemed even to thaw Madame Giry a bit, who as usual wore nothing more ornate than a sequined cape over her black gown. She let lax her rigid supervision, as she'd extracted from Erik the promise that he would attend and focus primarily on Meg and her doings each year that she attended the ball.

Meg dipped in and out of dances with jesters, knights, dominoes, tigers, and pirates, unaware that an unseen gloved hand that twirled her once made sure to keep her in his sights.

These eyes peered out of his dull black mask, watching as the small, lacy frame with its radiant curls piled on top of her head in the Dresden style whisper-hissed, "Christine! Over here! I have an idea!"

Christine's cheeks were tinged with excitement and the rush from champagne, just as Meg's were. "Yes? What is it?"

Again that forever reassuring squeeze of the hand. "You'll see!" Meg looked around her to make sure no one was watching. She failed to notice the figure with the eyes and the gloved hand. Then she pulled Christine through and away from the madding crowd, up the stairs, down the hallway, through dark doorways, and then onto the open stage.

The cacophony from the party did not reach them here. Meg pulled Christine center stage.

Christine stared out into the rows and rows of empty seats. This was one area of the theater the partying citizens of Paris were not allowed to debauch with their revelry.

"Meg," Christine said in a mild scolding way, "I don't think we're allowed to be here right now."

A determined chin jutted out at her. "And why not? We're not just ordinary people, you and I, we're artists! We work here, you know! We have every right."

So saying, she primly sat herself at the piano situated upper-right.

"But we've been here plenty of times before. What's so different now?"

"What's so different is I'll wager you've never been on the stage without at least thirty other people up here with you."

"Yes, that's true," Christine admitted after thinking it over.

Smiling merrily and extending her hand to the empty audience, Meg continued, "So go on! Appreciate it! Breathe it in!"

Christine took a deep breath and exhaled, throwing her arms out. Then the two somewhat tipsy girls burst anew into giggles.

Meg thumped out a few bars on the piano. "Now, sing, mademoiselle! Sing!"

Christine burned crimson. "Oh, I don't think so, Meg." Even though her audition for the chorus loomed somewhere in the close future, Christine was still so insecure about her singing she seldom let anyone hear who didn't have to. She only performed privately for Meg and after much coaxing. Meg was a sympathetic audience whose limited knowledge of singing made her a softer critic than most. Still, she had to bite her tongue when she convinced Christine to sing for her a few days after they met, struggling to find encouraging words for such weak and dead trilling.

However, she knew Christine had improved markedly in the past two years, and the various singing instructors didn't quite despair of her so quickly anymore. And thus Meg was now adamant. "Yes, you must sing! It would be a total waste of the opportunity! Here you are on the Paris Opera stage, no one to hear you but me! What are you so afraid of? Come, sing!" She cleared her own throat and steadied her fingers above the keys. "Here, I'll play 'Caro Nome' from Rigoletto. I know it's one of your favorites. Anyway, you know your singing can't be as wretched as my playing." She wrinkled her nose self-deprecatingly. She was in truth a very poor piano player, a fact which bothered the young dancer not at all. She leaned toward Christine, staring at her significantly. "Sing for your Angel of Music! He might be listening tonight."

"But"-Christine protested.

It was too late. Meg began playing the opening bars, clumsily but cheerfully.

Even with the amateurish playing, this was a tune that invariably swept Christine away. Soon she was closing her eyes and swaying there center stage, the faint light from the candles on the piano illuminating her fine bone structure.

She sang.

The combination of the joyous celebration, the promise of the new year, the champagne, Meg's friendly, non-judgmental presence, and the beauty of the song made Christine sing better than Meg had yet heard her.

To be sure, the voice was still too soft, a little flat in some places, a trifle sharp in others. Yet there was a tone there that Meg had detected before but never noticed so marked. It was difficult to describe. It was sweet, pure, and most of all unique. Like bells, but more ethereal, winged.

The absolute sincerity and lilting passion build and build as Christine sang, Meg unconsciously adjusting her playing to fit Christine's soaring voice.

"_Caro nome che il mio cor_

_festi primo palipitar,_

_la delizie dell'amor_

_mi dei sempre rammentar!"_

As Meg listened breathlessly, she felt that her friend with her regal bearing and her beautiful silvery dress was indeed the goddess of the moon. If the moon had a voice, this is most certainly what it would sound like, luminous and misty.

Again, it was not quite a good performance: but it was an extraordinarily touching one, a beautiful one.

She finished the impromptu aria. A quiet moment passed. Christine stood with head leaned back, beautiful brown curls cascading down her shoulders. Her eyes were still closed. Then she smiled embarrassed as Meg clapped behind her, whistling. "Oh, Christine! I've never heard you sound so good!"

She ran up and threw her arms around her pleased friend, kissing her on the cheek. "You'll go places for sure, Christine, if you keep that up."

Christine sighed, suddenly a little morose. "I don't know, Meg. I know my voice can carry a tune well enough for a friend, but for a whole audience?" She glanced dolefully out at the empty seats. "I'm not so sure."

"Oh, nonsense," Meg began, steering Christine away. Once more she commenced explaining to Christine all the usual reasons why she shouldn't give up hope, should simply continue working hard and have a little faith in herself. Christine cast one more wistful look behind her shoulder at the empty stage before disappearing behind the curtains with her friend.

The stage was now empty. The girls returned to the ballroom, just in time to raise a toast in farewell to 1881 and another to ring in 1882.

For the figure sitting unseen in Box Five, who had been witness to Christine's song, nothing would ever be quite the same.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: For those curious, here's the song Christine sings: watch?v=nE_eEGgpRxE**

**Also, many thanks to Wild Concerto for the fabulous, in-depth reviews! Wonderful stuff for an author to read.**


	6. Chapter 6

Hours after the celebration ended, close to daylight, Erik sat motionless in his lair.

For the first time since he brought the instrument into his makeshift home fifteen years previously, Erik did not play his pipe organ immediately after arriving back from the world above.

He simply sat on the bench, face bent toward the keys, staring. He breathed in deeply, staring intently at nothing.

Strong, invisible hands had his soul in their clutches, squeezing painfully, exquisitely.

One sound, and one sound alone, resounded in his ears.

Her voice.

The voice of Christine...Christine Daae.

Christine Daae.

Two years. For two years she had lived, breathed, and worked in his opera house, and he'd taken no more notice of her than he did of any other timorous ballet girl clutching at the Giry girl's skirt.

The fool he was, the _fool!_

Of course he'd been aware of her existence. He knew everyone's name and face who entered his domain, and he had a rough idea of her origins. He simmered with self-loathing as he recalled his vague dismissal of her story as that of a poor little rich girl, living off her parents' fame and her patroness's money. He'd thought her uncommonly pretty, but nothing more.

He knew she was an especial favorite of Meg's, who took in lost girls as you would stray animals. Often was the time he'd watch from far off as the two dancers sat together at the corner of the stage or in the dance studio, whispering and giggling. But he'd only been fulfilling his promise to Anahid, barely noticing the girls themselves as he surveyed the area for any leering stagehand or presumptive suitor.

Yet there had been too many errands, too many duties to attend to outside of ensuring Meg's safety to follow the Daae girl to her singing lessons. Tonight was the first time he heard her sing.

Little Meg made life especially difficult for him this evening, weaving in and out of quick dances with multiple partners, disappearing intermittently from his all-seeing gaze.

He was relieved when she dragged Miss Daae to the stage, where the two girls were the only figures he need focus on.

And he'd watched—without warning, completely unprepared—as the extremely pretty girl in the Grecian costume stepped forward and opened her mouth, transforming from a mere girl into an angel in front of his very eyes.

_Angel of Music, _little Giry said.

Angel of Music.

Erik trembled remembering that voice. He'd stiffened the moment the notes soared out of her mouth, untrained, untried, but-

He couldn't...

Her voice...

No, _she-_

She _beckoned _to him. With her song, she called to him. Him alone. _Sweet _was too saccharine a description for it, _clear _ineffective, _pure-_

Yes, pure. The tone was pure.

But more than that, _more._

His was a life spent in literal and figurative darkness. He'd killed and enjoyed it. He'd looked into the eyes of mankind's wickedness and heard their laughter, their searing, unrelenting laughter.

Erik had assumed that by now, that slight but strong instinct in him to protect the small and the gentle (_pretty little songbird, I mended your wing and you flew away_) was dead in him. The minute he saw the lingering fondness in Anahid's eyes die and turn to hate as he threatened her freedom convinced him of this.

Yet that part of his soul, the well of kindness that yearned for solace, returned to the tune of Verdi's light aria.

The hideous blackness and the violence transformed into a beautiful angel with the moon in her crown.

Christine Daae.

He...

He gasped, struggling with the truth of it. The irrational, impossible, but utter truth of it.

He was in love with Christine Daae.

He sighed thinking the words aloud, releasing the pressure squeezing his heart mercilessly.

In love. He was in love with her.

He would live for her. He would die for her.

And he would make her great.

She had much to learn, this girl. He would take that intangible core of her singing, that rang and rang in his ears dearer than bells, and expand it, smooth it, polish it, and show Paris what true, _true _art was.

He rose from the bench and as if for the first time he took in his lair.

There were many changes that must be made. Dust and cobwebs coated the furniture, which needed polishing anyway. Only his coffin bed, situated now in the bedroom he built, was available for those seeking rest. The gondola needed re-painting, and it was beginning to leak.

An angel entering the darkness deserved so much more.

A _bride _deserved so much more.

_His living bride._

A wedding dress. Yes, a wedding dress was also required.

He entered his bedroom and slipped out from behind his pillow a long-abandoned manuscript.

Opening the libretto and placing it on the organ's music rack, he studied the title page.

_Don Juan Triumphant._

He began writing his opera when he first entered the lair. He himself had been full of triumph then, having staked out an empire of his own making to rule over. Of all the skills he mastered, he'd always taken the most pride in his proficiency in music. Living in the opera house was the first time he felt he belonged.

And so his opera had thrived, for a time. Then came the war with Prussia. Erik soon found himself immersed with fortifying the opera walls, the pillars, preparing for rockfalls in his lair when the shells hit. He'd been likewise preoccupied procuring food for the denizens of his opera house, sneaking in provisions to Madame Giry so the ballet rats could eat.

The weary but warm gleam that had entered Anahid's eyes when he presented her with food and clothing let Erik hope for a moment that she no longer cast him aside as a complete scoundrel.

But the war hardened everyone. Erik had previously emassed a tidy sum from various sources over the years, and he spent the majority of it to keep the Opera Populaire running and his kingdom thriving. Once the fighting ended he started pressuring Lefevre for a salary. He turned a deaf ear to the man's desperate pleading.

Erik was brutal and curt, dismissing what he deemed unnecessary personnel in those trying times. And so once more he saw the stern, unforgiving look come into Anahid's eyes. But she should have understood, damnable woman. There was no time for kindness or softness while they rebuilt their lives—and no time for composing, either.

When finally the Prussians left Paris, Erik sat down at his pipe organ again, excited to once more make his song take flight in the pages of his composition.

And nothing came.

Sporadic bursts of melody would sometimes storm from his fingertips, but they were of a disconnected turn, and to his ears crude. Granted, they were masterpieces compared to the dreck performed above on the stage, but not worthy of his life's work.

And then came tonight.

Suddenly wild and untamed refrains drifted through his mind, taking ecstatic shape. All in her voice, coming out of that porcelain-pure face.

The Don Juan saga was a sweet yet painful part of his history. To him, Don Juan was a friend in the library of his childhood, as he huddled behind the divan with Tirso de Molina and Moliere's versions of the tale. He'd flinch as his brother drunkenly stomped into the room, calling for his ugly mutt of a sibling to come out and frighten the dinner guests. And his mother, his mother not far behind, crying hysterically, "Tristan, don't you dare bring him out! I couldn't bear it, I couldn't!"

Her high shrieks and Tristan's harsh laugh reverberated against his young skull, and his eyes would burn into the pages, willing himself not to be found.

_Don Juan would laugh right back, then skewer Tristan with his sword. _

Never before had escapism taken hold so firmly of a young boy. But never before had a young boy needed it so much.

Don Juan was his salvation. Don Juan was how Erik coped with what came later. An identity, a mask to disappear behind. He wasn't a freak who was jeered at and screamed at in the sideshow. He was a handsome libertine who all the women shrieked with lustful joy upon seeing, and the men only sneered at out of jealousy, to challenge him to a duel.

Naser didn't drag him out in front of his court to terrify them with his face. No, the shah was simply brimming with joy that the globe-trotting nobleman deigned to grace his court with his scintillating presence.

The sane half of Erik knew these were idle delusions, but a greater part of him subsumed this imaginary role so completely that his sense of superiority over others, his desire for sensual closeness and physical power dominated him.

He'd begun his opera with all the heat and life's blood he could bring to it, but looking back at even his most inspired moments, Erik knew now that it was missing _soul._

Soul.

Christine Daae was his soul now.

An obsession, a salvation. His very _soul_.

Tentatively placing his quill to the page now, Erik wrote the single most beautiful lines of music he'd yet written:

"_No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy._

_No dreams within her heart but dreams of love!"_

Yes, a woman. If Don Juan is conquered at all, it must be by a woman. As Erik was.

He suddenly plunged into his work again, mismatched eyes filling with tears of happiness that at last, at last he could work again.

Christine, _Christine._

As he wrote at a feverish pace, his mind went back to the times he'd seen the two girls together. He strained his memory, looking for something, anything that would allow him to approach her.

_Angel of Music. _He suddenly stopped with quill mid-air as he thought of that phrase again. Yes, he had heard that before, and not just from tonight.

Ah, yes, he'd stepped behind the Girys' mirror behind the dance bar Anahid installed in her apartment. Meg and Christine were stretching on the floor. He gave them a quick glance, satisfied there was nothing male in the room to disturb the young ladies.

What had he heard as he'd walked away into the shadows...?

"A sort of muse from Heaven who gifts artists with genius...something my father used to tell me..."

His heart swelled now at the revelation.

Wasn't that what he was planning for her, his treasure?

Yes.

The Angel of Music.

The Angel of Music, then.

He attacked the pages again, creating a disguise for Don Juan to lure in...Aminta! A pure peasant woman with a heart of gold who grew through love into a stunning seductress. That would serve Christine's talents well. A disguise to lure in the beloved.

Just like the Angel of Music.

He laughed and hugged his arms, choking with joy and madness and love, an all-encompassing love.

Her face in the dim light, more mystical than a spirit's. Her slim body swaying to the music around her, swaying as if in need of strong arms to clasp her, keep her steady. The long river of silken brown curls, the slender neck, the dark sweet eyes.

And that voice.

That voice.

Don Juan, in the end, did not need a bevy of conquests. He just needed his Christine.

The true Angel of Music.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: As Wild Concerto points out in the reviews, yes, I did pretty much steal the setting for the last chapter with Meg playing piano for Christine from the Kay novel. As I said, I'm aware of _some _of what happens in the book. So why not steal what I like? Heh heh...guess I've gotta add Kay to my disclaimer now.**

**Thanks again to Wild Concerto for the brilliant review! Awesome and thought-provoking.**


	7. Chapter 7

Several weeks passed.

Meg noticed right away some intense change had transformed her friend. When on a few mornings after New Year's Meg entered Christine's dressing room to see her staring into space with eyes glowing transcendentally, the dancer gasped.

"Christine! You look like you've seen"-

Christine turned to her sharply, her face more animated than Meg had ever seen her. "Seen what, Meg?"

"Well, I don't know exactly. A spirit, maybe?"

She jumped as Christine threw her head back and laughed wildly. For a moment Meg almost feared for her friend's sanity.

Christine jumped from her chair and spun Meg around the room. "A spirit, Meg?" She burst into giggles again. "A spirit!"

Breathless, Meg asked, "What in the world has gotten into you? This isn't like you!"

Christine put a finger to her lips, but her unnaturally bright eyes made the gesture more fervent than playful. "That's a secret," she mock whispered.

"I don't understand!"

Christine flipped Meg's curls. "You will, someday! When I take the stage!" And she laughed again, and twirled once more, this time holding only the skirt of her dressing gown as if curtseying for a waltz, humming "Caro Nome". Meg was confounded.

She was not the only one. Although Christine always projected the image of the dreamer, she was now absent almost to the point of comatose during group gossip in the dance studio. After an anecdote, when the girls would break into peals of laughter, Christine would invariably be seen staring at the ceiling, a serene but eerie look on her face. Then, with a hastily given excuse, she'd take her leave and spend the rest of the evening in her isolated dressing room.

It unsettled her fellow dancers.

Meg would shift uncomfortably as she'd overhear them talk amongst themselves. "What's gotten into Daae? She's even stranger than before!"

Madame Giry, Reyer, and even Lefevre on his visits to the set noticed her odd behavior.

"Christine Daae! Pay attention to your steps, girl!" Giry would command, bringing down with a bang the cane she used to keep time to the music.

"Miss Daae, if it would please you to look at me instead of whatever fascinates you so much up in the rafters, you might just learn where to stand when the chorus comes in," Reyer would snap.

Lefevre would simply raise his eyebrows and bury his beard into his chest as he observed offstage, "What a pity. Such potential from her father wasted."

Meg was worried. Christine had been making such strides toward launching a stable career and carving out a place for herself in the Opera Populaire. Now it appeared she was throwing all that progress away. While it was true Christine had always retreated into her own fantasy world when she could, she'd before retained enough common sense to hold onto as much of the world around her to keep her upright.

Almost completely gone were the times when the two girls would spend the evening talking together, or exploring the corridors of the opera house, sugar in their hands to feed Cesar the horse in his stable. Meg knew she herself was partly to blame, since her own career was on the rise and demanded much of her attention. But when Christine turned down three offers to supper and to rehearse at the Girys' in one week, Meg couldn't help seeking her out. She didn't feel chagrined or hurt, just concerned and more than a little befuddled.

It was with this determination that she headed to Christine's dressing room to find out once and for all what was so incredibly fascinating about the place.

She froze, her hand hovering above the door knob.

The most beautiful singing she'd ever heard came from within.

It was both strong and gentle, passionate and tender, and most of all, ethereal.

Meg was spellbound.

Then she recognized it. That tone, that unique tone she'd heard dozens of times before.

"Christine!" Before she could stop herself she barged into the room.

Christine spun around from where she faced the large wall-mounted mirror, as frightened and abashed as if she'd been caught in a crime.

"Meg!"

They stared at one another—Christine terrified, Meg enraptured.

"Christine, your voice! Was that really you?"

Looking shamed rather than proud, Christine meekly nodded her head.

"Well, of course it was, what a ridiculous question. It's not as if anyone else is here with you!" She didn't notice Christine shudder. Meg grabbed her arms. "I've never heard such singing before! You sound more beautiful than an angel, truly! I'm not joking! Christine...Christine, how...?"

Christine shuffled her feet, her eyes darting to the mirror and then back to Meg again.

"I have a new tutor. I was just practicing my scales for my next lesson."

"I suppose that explains it. But who is it? Signor Feretti? No, you've already seen him quite a few times. Madame Lecours...? No, you saw her a couple months ago. Who-"

"I can't tell you, Meg," Christine said very quickly. At her friend's baffled expression, Christine continued. "It's...it's part of our arrangement. I can't tell you now."

"But how strange," Meg couldn't help exclaim.

That unworldly glow was back in Christine's eyes. "Yes, very strange indeed..." she said in a low voice, as if to herself.

She did not speak again, merely turned back to the mirror.

Meg looked on, her concern growing. What sort of singing teacher instructs pupils in secret? Seemed rather suspicious. Meg couldn't help feeling protective of Christine, and often found excuses afterward to ask how she was faring, and was a little satisfied as the young woman's elation continued apparently undisturbed. If whoever this teacher was had any sort of negative design on her, certainly Christine wouldn't be so happy.

And besides, any tutor who could teach Christine—or anyone—to sing like _that _must obviously know what they're doing.

So Meg decided that the circumstance, though strange, did not require any interference—yet. Still, she kept a close eye on Christine. When Christine was around, that is.

Which she wasn't much, even less that before. She kept her evenings short, and her periodic socializing exclusively with Meg. When Christine wasn't required onstage or in the studio, Meg learned that she was without exception in that large, lonely dressing room.

* * *

><p>"Angel?"<p>

"_Yes, my child?"_

"I think I know why else you have come to me."

"_Oh?"_

"Yes...it isn't just to teach me to sing."

"_No?"_

"No. I...I believe you have come also...to bring me love."

….

"Angel?"

….

"Angel? Oh, please, answer me! Tell me I haven't offended you!"

"_...No, no. You could never offend me, my child. I was only impressed with your ingenuity. I have indeed come...for that, also. But it must wait, for the time being. Until after your debut."_

"I understand. I don't mind. I've waited so long already."

"_For love?"_

"Yes, for him."

"_For him, child? You mean you have waited to meet the man who will bring you love?"_

"Now, Angel, you mustn't tease me. You know what I mean."

"_**And you mustn't presume too much, Christine Daae. Do not talk in riddles. Speak plainly."**_

"I am sorry, Angel. So very sorry. Please forgive my thoughtless words."

"_You are forgiven. But tell me, now. The Angel sees much but not always all. What do you mean, you've been waiting for him?"_

"Surely...surely my father must have told you about Raoul?"

"_...R...Raoul?"_

"Yes, Angel. Raoul le Vicomte de Chagny. We met when I was a child and he was a few years older. I...I loved him very much back then, Angel. And I think I must still, for my heart beats only for him when I am not consumed by your music. Tell me: is it him whose love you will bring me? Is it?"

….

….

….

"Angel?"

…..

"Angel, are you still there?"

…..

"Angel, please, I implore you, forget that I talked out of turn earlier. Speak to me. Speak to me. Angel!"

….

"Angel!"

….

"ANGEL!"

* * *

><p>Meg was heading toward the storage room to root through old costumes for Pauline when she heard the anguished sobbing from far down the corridor. With her dancer's speed she flew to Christine's door and swung it open.<p>

Christine was pounding the mirror with her fists. "Speak to me, speak to me," was her wailing cry.

Meg hushed her and gently pulled her fists away from the glass, fearful of Christine cutting herself were it to break. Although Christine had been pleading with whoever it was to speak, she herself said nothing as Meg eased her away from the mirror. She collapsed to her knees and wordlessly buried her head in Meg's lap, shuddering with cries, Meg's hand stroking her hair.

* * *

><p>Lajos the ratcatcher had worked longer than anyone else at the opera house, longer even than Joseph Buquet. He was there before the remodeling, and knew the routes through the cellars better than he knew his name, his identity. He lived and breathed the underground almost as much as the inhabitant who dwelled even lower.<p>

The ratcatcher's deep voice as he rounded his rats up with his lantern still rang out clearly, though the same clarity could not be said of his mind.

He mumbled now to himself, stooped over as he led the herd of rodents away with his lantern. He paused suddenly. He heard from a floor below unearthly cries of fury, followed by crashing objects.

He shook his head, cackling good-naturedly in the dark. "Well, doesn't that beat all, gentlemen?" He addressed the rats in his booming voice. "Doesn't that beat all..." And his eyes quivered and grew dim. He mumbled once more into his chest.

Though his feet shuffled, he still kept up with the group scurrying around him.

* * *

><p>The next two days found Christine at the lowest Meg had yet seen her. She refused to speak of what happened in her dressing room when Meg found her hysterical.<p>

Still, it was obvious to everyone that now some new drastic change occurred in the girl. Her brown eyes were dull and lifeless, and her face wore the bleary look of one who'd cried until there was nothing left in her.

Meg tried to respect Christine's request for privacy, but the little dancer couldn't help but lay one gentle hand over Christine's during rehearsal as they sat waiting for their turn backstage.

"Christine," Meg whispered, "Please...won't you tell me what's wrong?"

Christine swallowed and shook her head. "No."

"But you might feel better if you"-

"I said _no_," Christine snapped. She pulled her hand away fiercely. Then she sped off toward her dressing room, pushing her way through surprised stagehands and dancers.

Fearing that Christine's exit during rehearsal would spell doom for her career, Meg leapt up to pursue her but was stopped by her mother. "Let her go," Madame Giry said firmly.

The ballet mistress's black eyes swam pensively after Christine's departing form. She had a feeling...but no, why should Erik bother about one understudy in the ballet?

But still, she couldn't shake her feeling.

Meg, meanwhile, was more puzzled than hurt by Christine's anger. She knew her friend had a temper, usually dormant, but one that could be stirred if pushed far enough. But that was only under extreme duress—and Meg was self-possessed enough to know she herself had not been cause enough for her ire. What on earth could be tearing her apart like this?

* * *

><p>"<em>Child...my dear, sweet child..."<em>

"A...Angel?"

"_You mustn't cry, my dear. You know it causes me pain. Ah, now you're laughing! That is an improvement, though I still see some tears running down your pale cheeks."_

"They're tears of joy, my Angel! Tears of joy! Oh, I was so afraid, Angel! So afraid you'd"-

"_Left you forever?"_

"Yes."

"_No, my sweet girl. I won't leave you alone in this cesspool."_

"But you were..._angry _with me, master."

"_Not angry, Christine. Just disappointed. You see, I thought you'd understood."_

"Understood...understood what?"

"_That the love you spoke of, that you say you've yearned for, should not be of this earth, not come from some crude mortal. No, dearest Christine, you are far too pure for any man of this earth."_

"Then...what love _is _there for me?"

"_Ah, that you shall see, my dove. Once you've made your true debut, I—and I alone—will reveal myself to you and show you a world of love, made just for you. A palace far, far away from this prison you call earthly life."_

"But...Raoul"-

"_**You must never speak of the vicomte again. **He is not for you, my child. Come now, don't look so heartbroken. Someday you shall look back and realize what a...what a passing whim your passion for the boy was."_

"But"-

"_**You must never see the boy again, Christine. Or I truly shall fly away, for that will mean you have rejected your art, your genius. You do not want that, do you?**"_

"...No, master."

"_Such a sweet, obedient child you are. How desperately you need my guidance. I have been neglectful. I must be stricter with you, Christine. From now on..."_

* * *

><p>That evening after rehearsal, Meg found Christine waiting outside the door to the Giry apartment.<p>

Meg was surprised, not from Christine's presence, but from the change in her countenance. It was a strange mixture of her ecstasy from before the episode in her dressing room and her doleful resignation after.

Still, the small, sad smile on Christine's face was genuine.

"Meg," she said softly, "Oh Meg, can you ever forgive my treatment of you today?" She clutched her friend's hands urgently.

Meg gifted her with a grin of her own. "Why, of course, you goose! Don't mention it at all." In truth, Meg's life with stern Madame Giry as her mother and tempestuous Reyer as her director inured her to harsh criticism and left her usually unfazed by others' outbursts. True, she'd been taken aback by someone typically docile like Christine behaving thus, but she'd felt a general surprise more than she had taken any personal offense.

"You seem a little bit better," Meg observed.

Christine blushed to the roots of her hair, looking down. "Yes, I am feeling more like myself again."

A moment of silence passed.

"I can understand if you still don't want to talk about it," Meg said finally. "Just please remember that I'm always here if you need me."

Christine looked up at her, and Meg's heart bled at the open look of vulnerability and gratitude in her wide yes. "You are so good to me, Meg. It...I...can't go into any detail, only...only I had a small disagreement with my singing teacher. That's all. We've made up."

"Oh." Meg tried to carefully frame her next words. "And I gather you still can't tell me who...?"

"I will soon, Meg. After he says I'm ready to make my debut."

"Surely you're ready now, Christine! Your voice is better than anyone's here!"

"Thank you, Meg. But my master knows best." Meg couldn't help but notice there was a hint—just a shadow of something, really—of...maybe not doubt, but..._uncertainty _in Christine's words.

"We'll see, Christine. Who knows, you might just surprise _him _yet!" Meg's expression was mischievous.

For the first time in days, Meg heard Christine laugh.

Yet Meg continued to worry, even as they embraced. Christine called the crisis a "small disagreement", yet at the time she'd acted as thought it were a lover's rift. Meg couldn't believe Christine would involve herself that way with a tutor, but surely this wasn't a healthy way to work. But then again, what wonders this was doing for her voice!

Meanwhile, Christine couldn't help but think of her Angel's words.

She'd lived since childhood with the dream of both singing majestically to make her father proud and of winning Raoul's heart. Both desires took up equal space within her. But now it seemed that to gain one was to lose the other.

Christine tried, but she couldn't—she _couldn't _believe in her deepest heart that Raoul was common, crude, and unworthy of her. But to doubt that was to doubt her Angel's words. And to doubt her Angel...

The unquestioning elation that filled her soul when the Angel entered her life now, for the first time, receded just the tiniest amount—and was replaced with fear.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Signor Feretti and the name Lecours comes from the 1943 _Phantom of the Opera, _and Lajos from the 1983 version. I'm all over the board here!**


	8. Chapter 8

The popular misconception is that a man obsessively in love with a woman never looks at another. This is usually incorrect. There may be none of the mad fondness associated with his thoughts of the beloved, but unconsciously or not, a man will still find himself drawn in some small way to a passing pretty face.

It does not diminish the obsession at all. The man will simply reason to himself that he's following nature, and only in brief spurts of thought, where no harm can be done.

Erik was not even cognizant of the fact he noticed Meg's dancing in _Hannibal. _She simply flitted around the hazy edges of his subconscious as he thought of other matters.

First, he thought of the production at hand. Chalumeau's _Hannibal _was a great white elephant of an affair, an inelegant spectacle popular with the troglodytes who sat drooling in his seats these days. Still, _Hannibal_ had the advantage of containing a few pleasing arias—frankly, that's all the piece was good for really, a vehicle for some likeable songs. "Think of Me" in particular would serve as a perfect showcase for-

Ah, but he was getting ahead of himself.

Next there was the matter of Lefevre to mull over. His retirement was imminent. The scrap metal dealers would soon take over. Nominally speaking, of course.

In truth, Erik felt a stab of sympathy for the broken Lefevre. Therefore, it did not require much convincing before he acquiesced to Giry's request on Lefevre's behalf. After all, Erik had promised the man his freedom once he'd amassed enough savings for retirement, and it would have been unnecessarily cruel to torment him further.

But the new managers...Erik must decide what to do with them. He was not nearly as young and impulsive as the nineteen-year-old who'd shamelessly revealed his identity to Lefevre some fifteen years earlier. He was cleverer now, subtler. Everything must be communicated through letter, through Madame Giry, and the well-placed booming command from the rafters if need be. A far more creative way to terrify the new gentlemen into allegiance than his old friend, frank extortion.

Finally, he thought of his Christine, always his Christine.

For the most important, the most _vital _reason he allowed _Hannibal _to play at his opera house was that it was time now for Christine's debut. "Think of Me" would suit her voice marvelously, and the character of Elissa afforded a capable actress a few moments of genuine depth.

He meditated on Christine, imagining her wild success, _his _triumph. He pictured himself watching her gliding gracefully across the stage, commanding the theater not only with her ecstatic voice, but with her beauty, her charm. He saw the tender smile, the riotous brown curls gleaming in the footlights. He saw the eyes wide with wonder at the applause given only to her, but which belonged to him, really. Everything she was belonged to him. The audience will love her, adore her, worship her—but only from afar, only with their eyes. He alone would claim her, triumph and all. The specter of the vicomte she mentioned no longer tortured him so often, and each day he felt her abandon that precious gift—her soul—into his appreciative hands, bit by bit.

He thought of this and more, all while he felt Meg Giry's dancing.

As he sat hidden in Box Five, planning, Meg grew more prominent in the ensemble. Today was the first dress rehearsal, and the slavegirl outfits were as risque as Madame Giry would allow. Meg had seldom played such an overtly sexual character before. What surprised the staff and dismayed her mother was how easily the innocent girl slipped into this seductive character. Her movements were imbued with a serpentine grace (Cecile, meanwhile, who was also directed to dance flirtatiously, protested moodily. She doubted many true slavegirls slinked about so wantonly, given their doleful circumstances).

As Meg seduced the invisible audience, twirling and leaping, Erik was reminded—without realizing it—of another dancer in another life.

He was twelve years old, shortly before Anahid entered his sphere. He was hidden behind the curtain covering his cage, just before his act. The circus master threatened a severe beating were the boy to reveal himself until given his cue, so Erik was usually careful not to make a sound, not to take a peek.

However, on this night, he found himself spellbound by the rhythmic jangling of a tambourine, the hypnotic strumming of a Flamenco guitar just outside his cage.

He lifted just enough of the curtain so that one eye could gaze out unseen.

The audience was hushed, watching the gypsy girl dance.

She was not the prettiest girl Erik had ever seen. She possessed marvelous coloring, though: luxurious dark brown hair, misty hazel eyes, bronze skin. But it was the confident, teasing way she delicately moved that really captured the young Erik's attention.

Her hips rotated in a manner Erik never dreamed possible of any creature outside of a trained cobra. She revealed her shapely strong legs with each twirl of her flame-colored skirt.

Erik had read much about women and their ability to enthrall through Don Juan, Shakespeare, Byron, and the like. But tonight was the first time he truly _felt _the significance a woman's form could take in a man's consciousness.

Something stirred in him. Unknown and prickly sensations crawled up his neck and spine, heating his deformed cheeks. A violent but pleasing pressure started to build in the pit of his stomach.

He did not think of the similar struggles this dancing girl might share with him, that she too might be forced to present her culture, her gifts, for the gawking of a crowd lusting for pageantry. He fell into the trap he'd always considered himself superior to, that of the common man's infatuation with surface temptation.

As Erik sat in his opera box, contemplating overdone operas, departing and incoming managers, and always, always Christine, he felt that same crawling sensation again. Meg and the dancer of his youth hovered into one image at the corner of his vision, ignored but ingrained in him. The whirling form—part rustic gypsy girl, part sprite-like ballerina-simmered in that pit in his stomach, even as his mind rejected them.

When he returned to his lair that evening, he created the character of a gypsy girl in _Don Juan. _It was not a large role, but one that would feature intermittently through various scenes. She'd enjoy a few trysts with Don Juan and maybe dance the z_ambra_ to entertain the audience as they waited for Christine to change costumes.

Without any particular thought put into the decision, he wrote "Meg Giry" by the character in the cast list.

Then he wrote two more arias for Christine and tweaked a few notes in their duet, "Past the Point of No Return."

As he settled into his coffin bed, he thought of the varnish needed for the new bed just outside, in his throne room. Golden, huge, and inlaid with crystals, it took the shape of an elegant gondola. He imagined Christine lying there, exhausted from singing more exquisitely than she ever could onstage. Her lips parted, her eyes half-open and full of glory, staring at him, at him, at him.

But it was the phantom of a dancing gypsy he dreamed of, with bright thick curls the color of the sun just before it descends into the horizon in the evening.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: A bit short, I know, but I feel it's important, nonetheless. A peek into the madhouse that is Erik's rollicking brain.**


	9. Chapter 9

When you finally achieve your established goals, you are seldom afforded the opportunity to stand at the threshold of your dreams and breathe in the triumph. The rush and whirl of realized ambition leaves you too breathless to appreciate what you've earned.

The same could be said now of Gilles Andre and Richard Firmin as Lefevre whisked them through their tour of the Opera Populaire that fateful June of 1882.

This was their second visit to the opera house, they having signed the paperwork in the managerial offices the previous day. Now they would see the theater itself and its inhabitants.

Both were swaddled in their finest coats, top hats, and walking sticks. Andre with his fly-away gray hair and mustache gave the impression of an alert squirrel, with a bit more dignity and intelligence. Balding and upright, Firmin looked like a maitre-d', proud but eager to please.

Andre in particular would have enjoyed a moment to soak in the atmosphere. Of the two, he was the one most appreciative of art; Firmin was there for the luxuries that in his naivete he believed came with an artistic lifestyle. Andre was the one who suggested managing the opera house after the partners compiled enough savings to move on from the scrap metal business.

They'd been out of place there, considered pompous dandies who would rather don velvet smoking jackets and sip champagne than deal personally with the "rag and bone" business they'd found themselves in charge of.

Firmin and Andre met briefly in school, but it was only later when they were individually looking for loftier careers after claiming their inheritance that they chanced into each other's lives once more. They agreed to enter into business together. They bonded over their status as unfortunate members of the _nouve riche, _their inelegant fathers having built up worthy inheritances for their sons through music publishing (Andre) and furniture reproduction (Firmin).

The two men worked various odd jobs at their family businesses for some ten years before their fathers passed. They picked up their inheritance and seized the most available and accessible business venture to go into together: the scrap metal trade. From there, they worked and strove toward nothing solid, only craving the sort of careers their refined temperaments yearned for.

The Paris Opera House it was, as luck would have it. News of Lefevre's retirement reached them just after they sold their factory.

Lefevre greeted them this morning more relaxed and contented than he had felt in years. He would be in Switzerland soon. This would all be over.

He was friendly but brisk with the gentlemen, desiring to get the tour out of the way as quickly as possible. Nothing is more agonizing when undergoing an ordeal than the moments just before it is finally over.

After exchanging their greetings and charging happily down the corridor, the men were greeted by an usher who opened the door to the theater. All at once an explosion of music and bright spectacle assaulted their eyes and ears.

The new managers at last let themselves shiver and rejoice inwardly. They had indeed arrived.

Ubaldo Piangi stood there in all his resplendent glory amongst the extras and Her – La Carlotta.

Andre had to bite his lips to hold back the almost girlish giggle of excitement. Firmin stood with mouth agape as he took in the scenery.

"This way, gentleman," Lefevre said breezily, as if leading them through an average office setting. They made their way down the rows of seats to the stage.

A bookish-looking man with a peeved expression had interrupted the proceedings, directing Piangi.

"Rome...Rome..." the great tenor repeated to himself, lost in concentration. Piangi was a large, unassuming dumpling of a man when not in character. Born Paolo Barbieri to a locksmith father and a saloon singer mother of mixed Sicilian and Moroccan blood, the young Italian followed in his mother's footsteps to take the stage. In the process, he shed his name which translated to "small barber-surgeon" and replaced it with "Ubaldo Piangi" – "bold tears."

An equal mixture of pomposity, true talent, opulence, and a lingering earnest kindness, Piangi felt no shame he still struggled with French. "Is difficult for me," he explained to Reyer lightly, continuing to practice the proper pronunciation of "Rome".

It made a rather comical sight: his hugeness and his garish costume—war helmet, emerald green cape, bronze shield, and rainbow smear of makeup – as he paced in a circle, forehead creased, repeating "Rome".

Reyer interrupted him. "Once again, then, if you please, Signor: 'Sad to return...'"

At this moment Lefevre and the new managers finally arrived at the stage. "This way, gentlemen, this way," Lefevre said. "Rehearsals, as you see, are under way for a new gala production of Chalumeau's _Hannibal."_

Once more, giddiness seized Andre. His appreciation of grand opera was as shallow as Erik's was deep. _Hannibal _was one of his old favorites.

Firmin, meanwhile, admired the swirling emerald and gold patterns in the costumes of Piangi and the extras crowding the stage. He was a little mystified by the humungous backdrop, consisting of two golden statues with cow heads standing against the exotic Carthage locale.

He only had time to dismiss this as "artistic business" when Lefevre attempted to make their introductions to the bedlam onstage. "Ladies and gentlemen, some of you may already perhaps have met M. Andre and M. Firmin" –

They were just bowing when Reyer testily cut in. "I'm sorry, M. Lefevre, we _are _rehearsing. If you wouldn't mind waiting a moment?" So secure now was Reyer in his position that over the years, the awe and reverential attitude he'd before given his employer faded with the sense of his own importance. He'd already turned back to Piangi, continuing to instruct him.

Lefevre explained, "M. Reyer, our chief repetieur. Rather a tyrant, I'm afraid."

The managers had little time to feel affronted as they were swept up again in the rehearsal, which started where Piangi left off.

They found themselves suddenly swarmed by dancers. The slavegirls were dancing in tribute to the great warrior, keeping time by the whip the tall stern slavemaster struck at their feet. As the young ladies dove in and out between the men, trying to dodge them, the managers found it rather difficult to concentrate on what Lefevre was saying.

He was motioning to Piangi. "Signor Piangi, our principal tenor. He does play so well opposite La Carlotta." Almost by rote, Lefevre said this with a hint of innuendo in his voice. Part of the draw of the two singers was their well-known love affair, which Lefevre always tried—subtly, in his mind—to capitalize on.

Madame Giry banged her cane irritated. "Gentlemen, please! If you would kindly move to one side?"

"My apologies, Madame Giry," Lefevre said, steering his companions slightly more to the right. He nodded toward the severe-looking lady. "Madame Giry, our ballet mistress." He leaned in to Firmin, as the theater-infatuated Andre was at the moment too distracted watching the dancers. "I don't mind confessing, M. Firmin, I shan't be sorry to be rid of the whole blessed business." Instead of finding an ally in each other, over the years Lefevre and Giry often clashed. Their methods of coping with Erik differed too much – Lefevre, the one straining desperately against his leash, and Giry, the wiser one who knew it best to placate him. Although they respected one another, there was little love lost.

Firmin frowned. "I keep asking you, monsieur, why exactly _are_ you retiring?"

Whenever this question was asked, Lefevre paled a little, though he kept his expression even. He pointed to where Andre's gaze was directed. "We take a particular pride here in the excellence of our ballets."

Among the dancers, a dazzling girl with fire-kissed blonde hair caught their attention. She danced with authority, with spark. She possessed a playful yet dangerous sensuality in her expression. So immersed in her dance was she that she spun recklessly close to the men watching, her streaming red, green, and gold striped skirt just brushing them. There was something almost Asiatic about her comely features.

Andre shivered. "Who's that girl, Lefevre?"

"Her? Meg Giry, Madame Giry's daughter. The lead dancer of our corps de ballet. Promising dancer, M. Andre, most promising. Believe me, Madame Giry is not the doting type of parent who would advance her career regardless of whether or not she has talent. Miss Giry has definitely earned her place here."

As she held their attention even in the middle of La Sorelli and the Slavemaster's passionate contortions, the new managers could not help but agree with Lefevre's assessment.

The rhythm of the dance was thrown off almost entirely when a tall, slim young woman suddenly leaped confusedly into the ballet. Compared to the dainty and smooth movements of the dancers around her, this girl's clumsy dancing made her look like a duck flying blindly into a herd of swans, even if the girl herself was lovely and graceful in her looks.

Giry thumped her cane again. "You! Christine Daae! Concentrate, girl!"

Panting, Christine at last fell in step with her partner, Meg. "Christine, what's the matter," Meg whispered anxiously through her teeth.

Meg was secretly flummoxed as anyone that Christine of all the understudies was selected to fill in for Sonya today as the second lead slavegirl (as Sonya had come down quite suddenly with a nasty headache and upset stomach). However, Christine had confided in Meg that her tutor proclaimed _Hannibal _was to be the setting of her true debut. Therefore, Meg was sure this placement was a step in the right direction. It was a chance to show the managers how professional Christine could be in a prominent role, even if it was in the ballet, not the chorus.

Yet here she was, fifteen minutes late, face white as a sheet, and eyes wide as dinner plates. And in front of the new managers, too!

Meg bit her bottom lip in worry before pulling the sensual mask on once again, as if by magic.

Meanwhile, these very managers observed Christine. "Daae? Curious name," Firmin noted.

"Swedish," Lefevre replied by way of explanation.

"Any relation to the violinist?" Andre put in quickly, eager to show off his theatrical knowledge.

"His daughter, I believe." Lefevre shook his head carelessly. "Always has her head in the clouds, I'm afraid. Although she is unique in that she dances _and _sings. She also understudies in the chorus. From what I understand, her singing is a bit better than her dancing, thankfully. Ah! Speaking of which, the chorus is starting again. You might want to stand back, gentlemen."

They did, gasping and chuckling. From seemingly nowhere a large, mechanical elephant decked in a costume just as ornate as the opera's stars - helmet on its head and exotic carpets beneath a large golden saddle – rolled center stage.

As the chorus rang out triumphantly, Piangi was lifted with great struggle atop the monstrosity. The three men watching held their breath as the rotund tenor wobbled uncertainly for a bit, before finding his balance.

Their ears practically bled as the chorus finished.

_The trumpeting elephants sound –_

_Hear Romans now, and tremble!_

_Hark to their step on the ground –_

_hear the drums!_

_Hannibal comes!_

Meg and Christine knelt gracefully at the feet of the elephant, raising their arms, heads back.

A moment of stillness and quiet passed. They were leaving room for wild applause. The only clapping came from Lefevre.

As he spoke, Piangi made his way off the elephant. The beast was turned around, revealing two stagehands operating from within, merrily swinging bottles back and forth. They somehow managed to steer the pachyderm offstage.

"Ladies and gentlemen – Madame Giry, thank you"- Giry grimaced at the interruption to her remonstrance with the tardy Christine. "May I have your attention, please? As you know, for some weeks there have been rumors of my imminent retirement. I can tell you that these were all true" – with practiced humility, he broke off to close his eyes and smile in acknowledgment at the perfunctory murmurings of regret from some of the more conscientious cast members. "It is my pleasure to introduce to you the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire, M. Richard Firmin and M. Gilles Andre."

The same conscientious cast members graced them with a smattering of applause as Firmin and Andre quickly put on their own practiced smiles, bowing here and there to no one in particular.

A soft cough and a rush of presence overtook them.

Lefevre turned to the source and cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, Signora Carlotta Guidicelli, our leading soprano for five seasons now."

Andre beamed foolishly and Firmin, sensing instinctively a powerful being, bowed once more.

Sitting on a chair in the corner, surrounded by a maid, a costumer, and some small breed of dog that looked a cross between a lamb and a sentient pillow, was Carlotta. She was just as bright, glittering, and ostentatious as anyone could have imagined or wanted her. She encapsulated the majority of the drama and the histrionics of the Opera Populaire; in just five years she'd caused more mayhem than Meg remembered anyone else had in her childhood.

La Carlotta turned artifice into an artform. Born to a courtesan in Florence without ever knowing her father, Cara grew up quickly and surrounded by love in spite of her fatherless state. Her glorious mother, who delicately adopted the title of "widow", with her rouged cheeks, towering height, and musical laugh assured the young girl she was meant for something very fine one day, surely.

As Carlotta grew, the many rich and so very kind gentlemen who came to pay compliments to her mother soon turned the compliments to her. When she was eleven she sat on one of their knees, blushing uncomfortably as he made her twirl his curled black mustache. In a light, sweet voice that contrasted with the lust burning in his eyes as he gazed at the daughter, he mentioned to Carlotta's mother that he happened to be well-acquainted with a few wonderful singing instructors who could make something of Carlotta's naturally clear and resounding voice.

Her mother watched the lascivious glances the man gave her young daughter, the way he stroked her hair. She silently thought that yes, it might be best to expose Cara to a different sort of life, a different sort of future.

Before her first lesson, Carlotta's brilliant and glimmering mother, weighted down by furs and French perfume, bent down to pinch her cheeks till they were pink. She said, "My child, it is better to be charming than to be good. You'll see one day. Get their attention, and keep it." She wanted better for her child, but she still knew a woman in the world had to use her..._natural _attributes to get by, even in a so-called respectable trade.

Thus were the unfortunately narrow but - from her experience - accurate views Carlotta's mother held, gathered from her own personal highs and lows.

Dipping her eyelids and swaying back and forth to the music, Carlotta found as years went by that it was indeed better to be charming than good with her music instructors. These charmed instructors secured her concerts at rich peoples' drawing-rooms. And charming these rich husbands and fathers secured her extravagant apartments in the center of town.

And all it took was one party for her to happen to charm the owner of the Florence Opera House.

She made her debut as an understudy at age seventeen. By eighteen, she was second lead soprano. By twenty, she was the prima donna. For it was just as important to be clever as it was to be charming – and swiping a newly-wedded patron's glove and placing it in the diva's dressing room just before a reporter from a popular newspaper came to interview her secured that diva's dismissal.

Carlotta did not stop to think of any moral repercussions. She was not heartless. She'd simply grown up listening to her mother and her mother's beautiful doting friends reminisce shudderingly of their previous lives in squalor and how anything – _anything _– was better than returning to the dirt, the hunger, the dying younger siblings. A man can escape through the military, through business. A woman must trust to charm. Always charm and ambition and cleverness.

Carlotta's voice was a good instrument, clear and powerful, but it lacked grace. She never missed it.

However, that's not to say she did not work hard for her career. She was a close observer and learned quickly which musical notes and keys best fit her voice, and how to situate herself onstage so that she could be always visible even when the narrative focus was not on her. Her presence was astounding.

When Ubaldo Piangi joined the Florence Opera House, he was already famous, having left Italy after his initial spurt of acclaim to give touring performances in Vienna and Zurich. He returned to his home country twenty pounds heavier and with a wealthy stick of a wife he barely spoke to. He was ten years Carlotta's senior and already balding a little. All the pretty chorines fawned lovingly over him.

All except for his leading lady. She was aloof and never spoke to him outside of performances. She would turn away and sigh, staring up at the ceiling as though wishing she were elsewhere.

He thought her terribly haughty. He disliked her icy manners, the way she barked commands at the staff.

He would like just once to look into her eyes when they weren't singing together.

One evening after rehearsal, he fell asleep in his dressing room, and woke long after most of the company had gone away. As he walked past the dressing rooms, he paused as he heard what he thought was a little girl crying.

He frowned. The sound was coming from La Carlotta's dressing room.

The door was open a crack.

He couldn't help but nudge it open a bit further.

She was at her vanity, convulsing with sobs. A telegram was crumpled in her hands.

"La Carlotta...?" He asked hesitantly.

She gazed up at him.

La Carlotta not only turned art to artifice, she turned beauty to artifice as well. While she'd inherited her mother's tall curvacious form, her face was a little more coarse and common, though still roughly attractive. To make it more genteel, Carlotta rouged it as her mother taught her, reddened her lips, and lined her eyes with dark blue to make them more mysterious. She touched up her dirty blonde hair with burgundy highlights.

As she gazed now at Piangi, however, the mascara trailed down her powdered cheeks, some of her bright vermilion curls stuck to her wet face.

She would have looked ridiculous were it not for the childlike sorrow pouring out of her eyes. She helplessly held up the telegram to Ubaldo. "Mama!" She said plaintively.

Piangi took up the telegram from her aunt and read, YOUR POOR MOTHER PASSED THIS EVENING LOVE AND KISSES DEAR VALENTINA WOULD HAVE WISHED YOU TO STAY STRONG.

He looked back down to Carlotta. "Mama," she repeated.

Piangi fell upon her, taking her in his arms as he stroked her hair, kissing her all over her face. "Little girl, little girl...Cara, Cara!" She sobbed in his arms for hours.

They were inseparable from then on.

Risking scandal and career ruin, Piangi separated from his wife and left with his Cara to Paris – where they and their scandal were welcomed with open, eagerly curious arms.

Carlotta's flair for the melodramatic and her unapologetic command of the stage was a foreign wonder to the more delicate aesthetic of the French. She was immensely popular.

She was detested by Erik.

To him, La Carlotta represented everything wrong with modern opera. Her voice, though powerful and technically impressive, was strident instead of passionate, mawkish instead of sincere, and her acting could hardly be called acting – an obvious scream when she meant to convey anger, a laughably deliberate vibrato when she meant to convey heartbreak. Many critics noticed this too, but were silenced often by editors who remembered the times La Carlotta would flash her dazzling smile at them at dinner parties, murmuring whispered promises that, though they never seemed to come to fruition, remained in their memory.

What neither Erik nor her critics understood was that the public did not flock to hear Carlotta's voice. What they came for was to see _her—_to see her hold her scandalous head high, to flourish her movements wildly, to entertain them not with her art but with her personality.

Any real talent she possessed may now have faded, her once charming excessives onstage now more mannered and monotonous, but the power of her personality—that she cultivated into a legend—was the sort to bring audiences to her naturally. It was ironically the sort of temperament that goes on indefinitely, long after the light in real genius burns out.

Carlotta smiled now as a Madonna does to her devotees as Andre rushed forward, taking her hand almost slavishly. "Of course, of course! I have experienced all your greatest roles, Signora."

"And Signor Ubaldo Piangi," Lefevre said, gesturing to the man.

Firmin acknowledged him, but Andre continued addressing Carlotta. This offended Piangi not at all – who wouldn't fawn all over his Cara? Instead of a look of offense, a gleam of fond pride entered his eyes as Andre solicited a performance of "Think of Me" from her. "I wonder, Signora, if, as a personal favor, you would oblige us with a private rendition?" He turned annoyed to the director he was already not terribly fond of and questioned briskly, "Unless, of course, M. Reyer objects?"

Carlotta laughed in a practiced flirtatious way. "My manager commands...Monsieur?"

Slipping easily into the role he'd adapted himself to since Carlotta's arrival, Reyer said with surface reverence, "My _diva _commands. Will two bars be sufficient introduction?"

"Two bars will be sufficient," Firmin hurried to contribute, anxious those present should not think him less knowledgeable in the arts than Andre.

Reyer turned to Carlotta. "Signora?"

Carlotta inclined her head. "Maestro."

"Think of Me", though lovely, was a song written with the express purpose to sell sheet music, not to fit the plot or overall tone of the opera it came from. Compared to the more grandiose music in _Hannibal, _"Think of Me" was uncharacteristically gentle, contemporary.

Not as Carlotta sang it, however. Of her many gifts, subtlety was not in her range. Everything she did she must do with her whole personality, with her whole repertoire of soaring, towering notes.

She stood and swanned her arms out elegantly. She sang the somewhat wistful and softly romantic lines as though she were atop her steed galloping toward Valhalla.

"_Think of me,_

_think of me fondly, _

_when we've said goodbye!_

_Remember me once in a while –_

_Please promise me you'll try!_

_When you find that once again you long_

_to take your heart"-_

Meg and a few keen-eyed girls shrieked the moment the backdrop started to give, allowing Carlotta enough time to just get out of the way before it plummeted in a heap to the stage.

Pandemonium struck all around Andre and Firmin. Varied shouts of "the Phantom is at it again", "the Ghost is with us," "he's here," rose up from singer, dancer, and stagehand alike.

Piangi furiously took control, rushing to Carlotta, who was shaking and gasping. "You idiots," Piangi cried to no one in particular, taking her in his arms. "Cara! Cara! Are you hurt," he asked in Italian.

Lefevre called wrathfully for Buquet. "Get that man down here!" He turned agitated to Firmin and Andre. "Chief of the flies. Old drunkard. He's responsible for this."

A few stagehands hurriedly raised the backdrop again, revealing Buquet as he stood ominously in the rafters. He held a length of rope, eerily reminiscent of a noose.

Meg shivered, remembering her mother's words. _Punjab lasso._

Joseph Buquet was a tall, stocky man, his white hair and stubble blending into his ghastly pale face. The only color was in his nose, which reddened with each swig of drink he took. He swayed now on his feet. He was practically a laughing-stock, but the dead look in his eyes and the universal knowledge of what he'd once seen still lent him a portentous air.

Everyone quieted as he rasped, "Don't look at me, messieurs. As God's my witness, I was not at my post. There's no one there, monsieur. You see? Unless, of course..." he stuck his head suddenly into the noose, his face wild with drunken glee. "It's the _ghost!" _

As he guffawed down at the frightened ballet girls, Meg looked with hard eyes into the rafters. She said in an insistent voice, "Here's there: the Phantom of the Opera..." Christine tugged at her arm curiously, noting that this seemed almost a mantra of Meg's. The phrase often passed her lips.

"Good heavens! Will you show a little courtesy?" Andre snapped at Meg. His enchantment with her and her dancing fled with these recent events, and the fact Meg now shed the flirtatious act of her character and revealed the outspoken and childlike aspect of her true personality.

"Mademoiselle, please," Firmin echoed. Christine at last succeeded in pulling Meg beside her where she sat on the floor.

Andre was all ingratiating smiles as he turned to Carlotta, who was being fanned by Piangi and petted by her maids as she sat collapsed in her chair. "These things do happen," Andre said in his most honeyed tones.

A moment of silence followed, Andre frozen by her deadly glare.

" 'These things do happen?'" She repeated in a cold, quiet voice, her accent strong.

At Andre's dumb look, she snapped, rising to her feet. "Si! These things _do _happen! _All the time! _I cannot work in these...in these...horrid conditions!" She addressed her paramour. "Ubaldo! _Andiamo_!"

Seemingly from nowhere Piangi was at her side with furs, bag, and dog. As he helped her into her stole, she spoke furiously to Firmin, Andre, Lefevre, and the whole theater. "Until you stop these things happening, _this _thing does _not _happen!" Holding back her indignant tears behind an enraged mask, she stormed past the two new managers, whipping them with the tale of her mink.

Piangi followed behind her with his hat and coat in hand, sniffing "amateurs" at them as he passed.

Firmin and Andre looked desperately toward Lefevre.

They were taken aback by the gentle smile on his face.

Throughout the hubbub a strange feeling of serenity had fallen over the old man.

He...he didn't have to worry about this.

He...

He was _done._

Casually, as if greeting two acquaintances on a sunny day in the park, Lefevre said, "I don't think there's much more to assist you with, gentlemen. Good luck. If you need me, I shall be in Frankfurt."

He did not take a moment to breathe in, for the last time, one more whiff of the life he'd devoted himself to for twenty years. He made no lingering eye contact with Giry, Reyer, or anyone else.

Instead he turned swiftly and with a quickness unexpected from a man his age, he left.

Contrary to his parting words, he never left a forwarding address with which to reach him.

He was gone.

Firmin and Andre stood stranded on the island of the stage, surrounded on all sides by hungry sharks.

The sticky sensation of embarrassment caught in their unprepared throats.

"La Carlotta will be back," Andre weakly offered.

"You think so, messieurs?" All jumped. Even her daughter had forgotten Madame Giry's presence throughout the chaos. She stood in her stiff black gown with her dark hair coiled in a braid around her head, the white envelope with its blood-red seal in her hand the only splash of color about her. "I have a message, sir, from the Opera Ghost."

The ballet girls all squealed, each in their turn tugging at Meg's skirt, tapping her shoulder, looking for reassurance. Meg squeezed their hands, though never letting go of Christine's.

"God in Heaven, you're all obsessed!" Firmin scolded. He and Andre had the evening before laughed together about the well-known Opera Ghost figure, meaning to consult with Lefevre if he'd like them to keep up the ruse after he left. Now it appeared the whole company genuinely believed in the idiotic rumor, or else this was an immense prank on the new owners.

But there was no humor in the stony face of Madame Giry as she continued. "He merely welcomes you to his opera house and commands you to continue to leave Box Five empty for his use and reminds you that his salary is due."

"His salary?" Firmin hoped he misheard.

"M. Lefevre paid him twenty thousand francs a month." At the aghast expression of the men before her, she added, "Perhaps you can afford more, with the Vicomte de Chagny as your patron."

"Madame, I had hoped to have made that announcement myself," Andre said curtly.

It was too late. The damage was done. The ballet and chorus girls all giggled excitedly amongst themselves. Although the vicomte had only recently come back to Paris, stories abound about how handsome the young man was.

Meg felt Christine grip her with the tightness of someone holding on for dear life. The blood appeared drained from her face. _She_ had not heard of his return. Now the bottom had come out of everything, and joy and terror warred in her soul. His name pounded in her temples, again and again. Maybe...maybe it wasn't him, maybe it was a cousin, an old man or a pimply boy, maybe...

"Will the vicomte be at the performance tonight, monsieur?" Giry asked. Meg wondered why her mother was so curious.

"In our box," Firmin answered.

Andre returned to the problem at hand. "Madame, who is the understudy for this role?"

"There is no understudy, monsieur! The production is new!" Reyer cried out. Of everyone present, he was the most distraught. Everything that happened onstage reflected on him, and he'd lost his two leads. "Piangi has an understudy, but La Carlotta insists in her contract on only having one for works in the repertoire. Those older productions get little press. She fears an understudy assigned to her in a newer production would be more eager to edge her out!" He pulled at his hair, face red. "What are we to do?"

Meg's impulsiveness, courage, and most of all her deep love for her friend led her next actions. She didn't even hesitate. "Christine Daae could sing it, sir!" She was on her feet. Christine stared at her with dead-eyed horror from where she shrank into herself on the stage floor.

Then she stared at the managers.

They and the entire company stared incredulously back.

"The chorus girl?" Firmin asked aghast.

"She's been taking lessons from a great teacher," Meg said with eager pride, as if the accomplishment were her own.

"From whom?"

This was addressed directly to Christine. She opened her mouth once or twice like a dying fish before answering in a quiet shaking voice. "I...don't know, sir."

A universal sigh of aggravation and exasperation across the stage. "Oh, not you as well!"

Meg commiserated with her, whispering, "Christine! For heaven's sake, certainly now that you have this chance, you can tell everyone who your teacher is!"

Christine shook her head helplessly. "But Meg, I honestly can't! You don't understand! I"-

"_Let her sing for you, monsieur." _Madame Giry's voice cut through the tumult. With nary a change in her expression she nodded toward the girl. "She has been well taught."

This was a surprise to Meg and Christine. Madame Giry never went to any of Christine's singing lessons, or understudy rehearsals for the chorus. When had she heard Christine sing?

However, Firmin and Andre were not insusceptible to the rigid air Giry had of a schoolmistress that demanded obedience.

Plus, what else was there to do? They were grasping at straws – or, at least, a pretty chorus girl.

With a weary gesture of defeat, Firmin signaled to Reyer.

Huffing, the director marched over to Christine. Meg helped her to her feet, noticing the way Christine's legs were shaking.

Reyer shoved the score in her face. "From the beginning of the aria then, mademoiselle." Almost immediately he snapped the book shut. He anticipated disaster.

So did everyone else. Half the stage consisted of practical worriers who feared the cancellation of the opera, which might eventually lead to the end of their careers. The more flippant half eagerly awaited what they felt sure would prove an amusing display of incompetence.

Meanwhile, Meg and Christine clutched each other's hands.

"You can do this," Meg said. Her face was like a sunrise: faith in Christine in her eyes and a wide smile encouraging her.

Christine felt temporarily warmed by Meg's loyalty, but nonetheless slunk almost guiltily center stage. Meg rushed to the props that Carlotta in her angered haste had hurled across the stage during her exit. Meg picked up the long silk scarf Elissa occupies her hands with during the aria.

With an almost deferential grace she presented her friend with it now.

One last look at each other, then Christine nodded slowly to the pianist.

Unconsciously taking the lead from Christine's timid attitude, the pianist played the opening bars in a gentler, softer key.

Even then, when Christine finally sang, the words were hardly audible over the music.

"_Thinkofme_

_Thinkofmefondly_

_When...we've said...goodbye._

_R-remember me..once in a w-while_

_Please promise me...you'lltry."_

Filled with despair and terror, Christine turned like a child instinctively to Meg, who likewise instinctively reached out to comfort and encourage her. Both drew back as Madame Giry once more brought down her cane with a loud bang.

"Andre, this is doing nothing for my nerves," Firmin groaned out the side of his mouth.

Yet a meditative look came over Andre's face. "Don't fret, Firmin." The voice was weak, but...there was a tone there...

Meg stared hard at her friend, willing that some of her own faith in her should transfer to the shaking girl with the scarf.

Her hopes raised when she saw Christine close her eyes. She recognized that look. Christine was about to lose herself in the song. Meg smiled.

All snickering and doubtful murmurs faded as suddenly glory itself soared out of the young woman's throat.

"_When you find, that once again you long_

_to take your heart back and be free,_

_if you ever find a moment, _

_spare a thought for me!"_

Great gasps of disbelief abound as Christine continued, turning the song into the most poignant expression of beauty and longing they'd ever heard.

Firmin and Andre saw daybreak.

When she finished to delighted and amazed applause, she collapsed into Meg's arms, the friends embracing, crying, and laughing.

Madame Giry stood apart from the rest, watching with a mix of pride in Christine and moody foreboding.

She knew now that Erik did indeed take an active interest in the girl.

For everything had unfolded as Erik said it would in the other note she received, two weeks ago.

The first part of the letter told her not to fret over the sudden illness of Mlle. Sonya when the new managers arrived – she would recover quickly.

But in the meantime, Miss Christine Daae was to fill in for her during rehearsal.

Miss Christine Daae was also to take Carlotta's place opening night. Should there be any trouble with the management, Giry was to stand firm and promote her.

Whether Erik intuited that Meg's friendly nature would make her the first to nominate Christine for the role or not, Giry didn't know. She supposed it did not matter now.

After hearing Christine sing the aria, Madame Giry no longer doubted Erik's motives, either.

And she feared, she feared desperately for the girl.

Luckily she'd thought of the vicomte.

She remembered coming home late one evening about a year and a half ago, opening the door of her apartment so quietly that the two girls in Meg's room did not hear her enter.

But she heard their conversation.

She heard the dreamy, far-off voice of Christine Daae telling Giry's daughter all about a long-lost young love, a dashing vicomte. Raoul de Chagny.

Two months ago Madame Giry heard that name again. In society it was apparently well known that the young viscount had returned from the Navy. Always eager to flaunt her upper-class connections, La Sorelli regaled a fellow dancer with all the details of an affair she once carried on with his late brother and what she had seen of Raoul then. "This boy Raoul, you know, he was not like Philippe or any of the rest from what I remember. He was a very eager, sincere fellow. Handsome too, so handsome! He thought I was ridiculous, the brat, but I can't hold it against such a good-looking specimen. He was quite fond of the arts, as I recall."

After Giry received the Phantom's note, she sat down at her desk and wrote one of her own. She walked to the post office, leaving instructions that she wanted all her mail forwarded there for the time being.

In just two days she received a reply directly from the vicomte. He would be delighted to serve as patron of the Opera House.

Madame Giry smiled to herself now, watching Meg prepare Christine for tonight's gala performance.

For the first time there was a development at the opera house Erik had been unaware of, and Giry hoped it would be Christine's salvation.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So as you can probably tell, I borrowed the majority of the dialogue straight from the OLC libretto (including its version of the "Think of Me" lyrics). I don't think I'll have to do this again, it's just that the _Hannibal _rehearsal is the most dialogue-heavy scene with much-needed exposition.  
><strong>


	10. Chapter 10

Madame Firmin noticed that the instant Christine Daae's name was mentioned onstage before the performance that Raoul de Chagny's distant face immediately transformed – froze, then melted.

The polished manners disappeared to reveal a true boyish smile, a hearty laugh of delight and surprise.

This piqued the lady's interest, as with the rest of the audience, she felt only disappointed when her husband announced to the audience the change in program from the famous La Carlotta to some unknown. Mme. Firmin knew of the switch beforehand, of course, as her husband had told her all about it when he arrived home that evening. He looked like he'd been struck by lightning. From the sounds of it, he'd had the worst first day one could possibly have at a new job – yet he was hopeful that the day might yet turn out triumphantly.

A socialite in her youth, she'd met many handsome, charming young men, but never one who possessed such warmth as Monsieur de Chagny. He was still tanned from his tour with the navy, and his eyes had the bright but far-off look of the sea, his dark blonde hair the sheen of sand in the sun. With his tall frame, broad shoulders, and chiseled features, he was enough to make the hearts of women of any age flutter (though hers still belonged exclusively to Richard, Mme. Firmin dutifully reminded herself – but what was the harm in looking?). There was something strikingly leonine about the young vicomte. It was difficult to believe he was only twenty-four.

Yet for all his warmth there was something rather unsettled about his movements, as if he was just keeping himself in check. He acted like he wanted to say or do something – but what he did not know.

But the moment Miss Daae's name was spoken, a revelation took over his features.

As he sat anxiously awaiting the curtain to rise, Raoul felt joy. He wondered to himself if this was to be the pattern of his life: cynicism on his own, light-hearted joy with the Daaes.

His experience in the navy had both served him well and increased his cynical outlook. He'd met brave men, steadfast and true, but also degenerates and bullies. He'd been spared no hard labor, and the fact he handled it well soured him rather than endeared him to the latter group of men. To be wealthy and privileged was one thing, to be a hard worker was another. To combine the two was deemed unfair and greedy by the majority.

He did not earn many friends, despite his jovial nature.

When he returned to Paris, he was surprised that on the surface, he was able to once again easily mimic the mannerisms and courtesies appropriate for his class and station after so long at sea without them. However, inside he felt anxious and discontent.

He'd heard of Gustave Daae's death a few years after it happened, while still in the navy. As he'd never learned Madame Valerius's Paris address, he sent his long letter of condolence to his sister Laverne to pass on to Christine.

Laverne wrote back apologizing, explaining she was not acquainted with Mme. Valerius and therefore knew not her address. She had heard, however, that the retired dance instructor left Paris.

Laverne was satisfied when she sent the letter. While she detested lying, it was for Raoul's own good. In truth, she had spotted the Christine Daae girl not long ago taking a walk with her foster mother. She was getting far too pretty, and Laverne would not have her darling baby brother associate with the same bad sort of women his older brother had. Not only was Christine Daae in the opera, but she was half Jewish, to boot. Simply unacceptable.

Raoul received his sister's letter and, dejected, tried to accept that he would more than likely never see his little Christine again.

And now there were Firmin and Andre on the stage, nervously announcing her name to a chagrined audience.

As the managers settled into the box - Box Four, not Five; they weren't tempting fate tonight - they like Firmin's wife were surprised by the sudden childlike happiness in the heretofore polite but remote young man's bearing.

The curtain rose. Firmin and Andre cast one look at each other. They held their breath.

Raoul stared, smiling.

Then his eyebrows flew to his hairline when the most beautiful voice he'd ever heard floated up from the stage.

_This trophy_

_from our saviors, from our saviors,  
><em>

_from the enslaving force of Rome!_

A hushed gasp from the audience.

Carlotta would have hurled the verse at the audience like a discus.

_This_ girl – this _woman – _sang-snarled the words in a subtly seductive tone as she held the grotesque severed plaster-cast head. This combined with her ethereal tone of voice paralyzed the audience more than any overt theatrics could have. She blazed like fire in her red and gold patterned Carthage dress.

Raoul's mouth was parched. His eyes stung.

He felt as you do in a dream when seeing someone almost known to you, when the features are familiar, but alien at the same time: out of place, mystical.

This figure dressed in a sparking, exotic gown of red, green, and gold, with a crown atop her head, had the same curly hair and the same expressive eyes of the Christine Daae he'd left behind.

But instead of a gawky thirteen-year-old, the hair, eyes, and smile belonged to a goddess, serene and magnificent.

A skeptic might claim her interpretation of Elissa was too youthful, too endearing. But there was not a skeptic there at the end of the night. Her voice was like the purest crystal.

Raoul felt something odd and painful in his chest.

He'd known only a few women, and felt nothing but shame and dissatisfaction afterward. The sailors were jeering and singing outside the tavern window, and nothing was clean.

But Christine...no, Christine was a spindly little thing chasing after him on the beach, laughing like a charming and graceless donkey at everything he said.

Who was this slender, ecstatic young woman, her swan neck leaned back as that glorious voice, no longer containing the childlike notes from before, filled Raoul's soul with...

With _what?_

Raoul felt unsettled still, but of a different kind.

The sensation thrilled him.

He was the first on his feet after every aria.

During the curtain call, Christine at last let her true smile show.

And there in that smile was the seaside and Gustave and Raoul's youth, his happiness.

A great, overwhelming heat engulfed him.

So many years had gone by. She may not remember him, but he remembered her.

"I must see her," was all he could say to the managers, his wistful smile still hovering over his features.

Madame Firmin smirked in anticipation of the first romance for her to observe at the opera house.

* * *

><p>Meg watched Christine from the shadows of the wings, feeling the same pride and joy as Raoul, but hampered by worry.<p>

Since Christine started her lessons, Meg had only heard brief snippets of her singing. Christine said her master did not want her to sing publicly until he'd given his consent. And now watching her sing tonight, Meg noticed something about her improved voice she hadn't before.

The notes were glorious, beautiful.

But they weren't _hers_.

She acted and sang perfectly, capturing the audience and bringing them to their feet.

But she didn't seem herself.

Meg blinked awake from her musings, the ballet girls having gathered around her. They were already changed back into their tutus, as Meg was. Mother wouldn't be pleased. They'd all danced horribly tonight, she thought.

She wasn't far from the truth – they'd all danced as they usually did, but at a hectic, distracted pace.

Meg was too busy helping Christine prepare for the evening to properly see to her own rehearsals, and tonight she was more unprepared than at any other performance in her almost fifteen years of dancing. Luckily, she'd been performing so long that she was able to fool the audience with a few improvised steps here and there when a cue was missed. Still, Mother would _not _be pleased with such shambling recoveries.

Yet Christine had shook so much when Firmin and Andre gave their blessing for her performance, and needed the support of a friend throughout the night. And so Meg whispered words of encouragement in-between scenes, in-between costume changes. Yet Christine's wide brown eyes only stared ahead vacantly, almost like a marionette without its puppeteer.

Then she'd transform onstage, seemingly in control again.

Meg shivered as the music reached its climax. The audience erupted into applause. The opera was finished.

The dancers got as close to the stage as they could during Christine's several encores, trying to catch a glimpse of her.

Meg wanted to feel simple happiness for Christine, but the singer's lifeless behavior backstage, and the...the _force_, the _presence_ onstage that wasn't _hers_...Meg couldn't help feeling anxious, too.

At last the curtains closed and Christine turned around to greet the girls. Meg immediately relaxed. Christine looked tired, but herself again. The smile was hers.

Even the girls who hadn't quite warmed to Christine swarmed around her now, eager to take some part in her triumph. Christine generously gave each girl a rose from her bouquet, until she held but one.

Closest at her side was Meg. The two friends locked eyes. Relief and gleeful triumph were written in their expressions as they squeezed each other's hands.

A deep familiar voice interrupted the throng of talkative petite rats. "Yes, you did well," Madame Giry said, a streak of black amongst a sea of white tutus. Meg saw her mother's eyes narrow meaningfully as she leaned in and gripped Christine's arm. "He will be pleased."

Christine whitened.

The ballet mistress turned to her girls. "And you," she said, and proceeded to dispense the lecture they were all expecting. "You were a disgrace tonight! Such _ronds de jombe_! Such _temps de cuisse_! Come!" She clapped her hands harshly. "We rehearse _now_."

Automatically Meg swallowed her frustration and lined up with the other dancers, watching as Christine drifted away. In unison they went through their movements, careful to uphold accuracy under Giry's watchful eyes.

However, Meg kept a close eye on her mother and waited until she passed Meg in her line. Then the young girl sneaked quietly away, winking once at Cecile, who nodded in reply: she'd cover for her.

Meg found Christine outside her dressing room. The young diva stood frozen, staring upwards. She looked as if she were listening to something.

She jumped when Meg tapped her shoulder. Her features relaxed when she saw her friend.

Meg couldn't hold her high curiosity in check any longer. "Where in the world have you been hiding? You were perfect, really you were! I only wish I knew your secret. Who is your tutor?" The eager yearning in her eyes brooked no room for argument.

Christine took a moment. She breathed in deeply. She looked cautiously behind her, around her. Then she finally inched closer and stared confidingly at Meg. "Father once spoke of an angel, you remember," she reminded Meg. "I've dreamed all these years he'd appear. I truly did. And now...now I sense him whenever I sing!"

Taking Meg by the hand, she pulled the puzzled dancer into the dressing room with her. Christine's quiet dresser Marie was standing waiting. Her gray hair sat neatly atop her head, her posture straight.

Seeing her, Christine whispered the rest of her story to Meg in a low voice as Marie smoothed out Christine's dressing gown. "He teaches me here in this room, calling me softly! Hiding somewhere. Somehow I knew he's always with me, he, the unseen genius!"

Her voice was quiet, but her expression was vibrant.

Meg dismissed Marie, helping Christine herself with undressing, laying her shoes on the table. Now they could speak more freely. However, Meg didn't know where to begin. What Christine was saying...what _was _Christine saying? With great consternation, Meg said delicately, "Christine, you must have been dreaming. You certainly know stories like this, while nice, aren't real. You're talking in riddles, and it's not like you!"

Her worry only grew as Christine, seemingly unhearing, stood, staring ahead with glassy eyes. Her fingers fiddled uselessly with the tie to her dressing gown. "Angel of Music, that's what I call him. I pray each night, I pray, pleading, "grant to me your glory, my guide and guardian!'"

Meg's heart pounded fearfully. She...she sounded like a religious madwoman! Who _was_ this angel?

Meg had a sickening suspicion she didn't dare name.

She reached out and steadied Christine, noticing the previously deliriously happy girl was now pale as snow, her face stricken. "Meg," Christine whimpered. "He's with me, even now!"

"Your hands are cold," Meg murmured, looking at the trembling hand.

"He's...he's all around me."

A soft hand on her cheek. "Your face, Christine, it's white!"

Her heart almost broke in two as the most childlike expression of fear she'd yet seen stared out of Christine's helpless dark eyes. "It frightens me," she said in such a quiet voice.

The maternal urge surged strong through Meg. "Don't be frightened," she said in a steady sweet tone, staring warmly at her friend. Christine nodded once, breathing slowly.

Both their hearts dropped violently to their stomachs as the door flew open.

"Meg Giry," Madame Giry said sternly. "Are you a dancer?"

Meg nodded dumbly from where she'd backed into the mirror.

"Then go and practice," Giry said, motioning to the door.

Meg's temper heated her cheeks. Here was Christine having some sort of breakdown, and – and - "Rehearsal! Always rehearsal," she muttered angrily to herself, leaving the dressing room after one more reassuring squeeze to Christine's hand.

As she rejoined the corps de ballet, Meg thought back on the disturbing interview with her friend. As she spun and spun, she felt the air thicken around her, and at last she could no longer deny what she was sure she'd known the whole time.

Christine's teacher was the Phantom of the Opera.

Another shiver, deep this time, all down her spine.

Possessing the same intuitive nature as her mother, Meg also knew why.

"Oh God, let Christine be protected!" She thought desperately to herself as she almost collided with a surprised Cecile.

As if in answer to her prayer, Madame Giry was just then presenting Christine with a card that read in part:

_A red scarf...the attic...Little Lotte._


	11. Chapter 11

The buzzing in her temples clouded her eyes so that she could scarcely read the note.

The same phrases leaped out at her.

_A red scarf…the attic…Little Lotte._

The rest of the words were too jumbled in Christine's mind for her to properly process.

_It's him. It's him. It's HIM._

What she once used to dream, she now dreaded.

Her shoulders seized upward like a startled cat's at the knock on her door. A tremulous "yes" was all she could offer as she sat at her vanity.

She couldn't turn around even as the door opened.

The buzzing pounded like a hammer as she heard that warm deep voice again.

"Christine Daae, where is your red scarf?"

An electric shock down her neck. Hot tears stung her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed and she swayed just slightly in her seat. "...Monsieur?" She still could not face him.

The voice was closer now, right behind her. "You can't have lost it after all the trouble I took. I was just fourteen and soaked to the skin."

The dread vanished and a typhoon of seaside memories and wild infatuation washed over her. "Because you had run into the sea to fetch it!"

She stood and faced him.

He was there – more handsome than in any of her dreams. But more than that, there was the gleam in his eyes: endlessly kind, playful, mature.

"Oh, Raoul! So it _is _you!"

Raoul could only wordlessly shake his head for a moment, his composure suddenly gone. Now that he was closer to her, he could see more easily that fond, doe-eyed look again, amidst the glory of her new beauty. A faint trace of lemon verbena clung to her long curls. At last he smiled, and Christine forgot she'd ever felt misery. "Christine."

She flew into his arms with the graceless energy of that child at the beach, and Raoul squeezed her to him, squeezed her as if she were the last shred of happiness in a cold, hardened world.

Their laughter was the same and melded together.

After a long moment, Christine pulled away. Suddenly shy, she sat at her vanity again.

But Raoul wouldn't let her escape. Her heart broke as she heard the old playful and mischievous notes in his voice as he stood with his hands on her shoulders. "Is Little Lotte letting her mind wander again? After her great triumph?"

Christine's smile was so sad and happy at the same time. "Ah, so you remember that, too."

"Is she thinking of her fondness for dolls, goblins, shoes...?"

"Riddles, frocks," Christine finished for him, lost in the dream only they shared. Her hand was on his, and they stood thinking and feeling as one.

"Those picnics in the attic," Raoul whispered in a husky voice.

"Father playing the violin."

"As we read to each other dark stories of the north."

Christine suddenly sang.

"_No, what I love best, Lotte said,_

_is when I'm asleep in my bed,_

_and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head."_

Raoul shook his head in amazement again. To hear that old childhood rhyme from this new yet familiar voice, so exquisite and angelic, about turned his heart over. He'd never heard anything so indescribably sweet.

Christine turned to him and there was such a dark innocence about her refined features. "Father said, 'When I'm in heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you.'"

Raoul smiled. "Yes, I remember."

"He told it to me again on his deathbed."

Raoul closed his eyes and nodded. God, what she must have gone through after Gustave's death. The struggles of a girl without a family, with few connections...

A protective impulse surged through him. He wanted to hold her. Hold her.

"Well, father _is _dead, Raoul." Before he could offer condolences and excuses for his absence, she continued in a rapid voice. "And I _have _been visited by the Angel of Music."

Ingrained gallantry influenced Raoul's words. "Oh, I've no doubt of it! Your father would be so proud today, Christine. To celebrate, we'll now go to supper!"

Christine then noticed the champagne he held, the bouquet.

The dread came back in a wave.

She wanted to tell him...but how...

"No, Raoul. The Angel is very strict."

He was perplexed, but excused these words as very deadpan teasing. She was an actress, after all, and could pull off that sort of thing. "I shan't keep you up late!"

Christine shook her head. "No, Raoul." She wanted nothing more than to bury her face in his chest, but her Angel...her _father..._

For all his warmth and liberalism, Raoul was still a victim of his upbringing. He'd been trained to pursue and woo, and his natural enthusiasm convinced him she was simply continuing their game. He ignored her refusal. "_You _must change. _I _must get my hat. Two minutes" – The youthful, genuine Raoul suddenly peered out of his eyes and smile again. " – Little Lotte."

It was this reminder of all she held dear that kept Christine from calling out until he was already gone. "Raoul!"

She stood panic-stricken staring out the door as he vanished. "Things have changed, Raoul..."

* * *

><p>It was terror that brought her back inside. Terror that turned her toward the mirror once the voice spoke in its thundering rage.<p>

She took in his abuse of the departed Raoul with shuddering resignation. Terror was everywhere inside her.

She must see him, see the face of the Angel, to convince herself that everything that had happened was right.

And to take away the terror.

Terror turned to ecstasy once the Angel's indistinct, ice-pale face appeared in the mirror.

Then she felt and knew nothing as he drew her in, drew her away. All she saw was mist and all she felt was a sleepy surrendering...surrendering that dulled the terror.

* * *

><p>Raoul bounded back at the precise moment Christine's hand was seized by the death-cold one on the other side of the mirror. Raoul halted at the closed door. He heard the eerie singing, the cajoling. The door was locked. Jealousy did not inflame his breast; instead, some primal, instinctive fear beat there.<p>

This was not the smug voice of a lover.

There was something too haunting about it, something...predatory. Something not right, and why wasn't Christine saying anything?

He called her name, pounded on the door.

When at last it gave, he found himself alone inside her dressing room, all trace of her gone.

The berserk rage and panic he felt made him realize, in the back of his fevered mind, the truth.

He was in love with Christine.

And she was vanished.

Raoul had the blood of warriors, lions, and champions racing inside his veins. He fought for those he loved with the combined fierce passions of all.

What he couldn't handle was powerlessness.

And here he was, hat in hand, alone in the room _she - she - _had stood in and now had disappeared from.

Leaving him without a word, without one last look from those soft, mysterious, yearning, and mournful eyes that he knew he'd see until the day he died.

The passion, fear, and frustration bubbled out of him with one cry of frantic love.

"Christine! _Angel_!"


	12. Chapter 12

"Ah! There she is," Cecile said to Adele, jabbing the girl with her elbow. Cecile pointed to Meg, who was walking with absent steps in the opposite direction. She was leaving Christine's dressing room. Again.

Cecile and Adele, plus Nynette clutching to their skirts as they scurried quietly down the hall, headed toward the petite figure.

Meg remained lost in thought, not hearing their approach.

The clownish side of her personality coming to the forefront, Adele sneaked up to Meg with muffled steps and poked her in the rib.

She whirled around shrieking. After a burst of laughter, the girls felt a flash of guilt and surprise at the terror – yet fight – gleaming in Meg's wide eyes.

They all quickly regained their composure. Adele giggled and leapt back as Meg swatted at her. "Boor!" Meg mock-scolded. "You frightened me half to death."

"That was the plan," the freckled young Adele replied, curtseying with a devilish grin on her face.

"Are you all right, Meg?" Nynette asked uneasily. "Did something happen? You looked so afraid!"

Meg bit her bottom lip for a moment, thoughtful. "It's...it's Christine. She still can't be found."

The three girls collectively bit their tongues. The story quickly spread around the opera house that the dashing young vicomte was seen heading to her quarters alone after the opera, and that Christine had subsequently disappeared, and still wasn't back the next day. Putting two and two together, most people in the Opera Populaire came to the same conclusion regarding Christine's whereabouts.

Even the ballet girls, who'd come to accept and even like Christine, were inclined to agree. They passed no judgment. They'd all seen Raoul, heard his deep, masculine voice. They understood.

Yet Cecile, knowing of Meg's love and high opinion of Christine, and being the most sensitive of the ballet girls after Meg and Christine, insisted on their silence. She kicked Adele now, halting her giggle. Still, Cecile privately wished Meg wasn't so naive.

"Oh, I'm sure she's all right, Meg," Cecile said. "You know how solitary Christine is. She's probably resting after such an ordeal."

"Yes, but where? Poor Madame Valerius is worried to death! She hasn't seen her since before the debut! And Christine was so queer after the performance! She" – _No, Meg, _she chided herself._ Christine spoke to you in confidence. Until you know more, don't start talking your fool head off to the first people you meet about everything._

"Well, enough of that," Cecile announced, taking Meg's hand. She felt it wise to take Meg's mind off the matter. "Come on! The girls are gathering by the prop room. Old Buquet's telling stories about you-know-who."

"Oh, I don't know if I'm in the mood," Meg said warily. She usually looked forward to Buquet's stories with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. She yearned to learn all she could about the opera ghost, but from Joseph Buquet of all people – so leering, so off-kilter – so inclined toward revealing what Meg feared was _too _much – the whole thing made her uncomfortable. Plus, with Christine's disappearance, the Phantom was no longer a dim shadow at the regions of Meg's consciousness but now an active threat to someone she loved.

Yet the three ballet girls gave her no choice. They pulled at her and whined at her, until Meg found herself practically dragged to the designated spot.

Buquet sat like a lumpen giant in the center of the graceful figures dressed in frilly white, the girls huddled on the floor around him. As Meg and the others approached, he was showing off the grim plaster-cast heads lining the prop room shelves.

Meg was tentatively optimistic. Hopefully Buquet was too distracted showing off his prowess with these grisly props to want to gossip about the phantom.

The girls all shivered and squealed at the way he made the heads distort themselves, the white eyes open and close. Meg, however, had forced herself in her youth to study closely these hideous, leprous visages, determined to tackle any fear of them head on. She'd been successful. She was used to them now.

She felt a surge of annoyance as Buquet's eyes lit up upon seeing her. She recognized that look. Meg knew now there would be no getting away from hearing about the Phantom.

Joseph Buquet had some sort of fix on Meg. He maintained an antagonistic relationship with what he considered her nag of a mother, who disapproved of his drinking and his loose tongue. Because he couldn't openly defy the forbidding ballet mistress, he settled instead for frightening her impressionable daughter with tales of the ghost.

And he wouldn't lie to himself. He was also noticing what a fine-looking girl she'd become: strawberry blonde mane, wide clear eyes, inviting curves blossoming on her delicate frame. He often imagined pulling the innocent white ribbon from her luxurious hair, and watching as her cheeks reddened, her form trembling...

Meg trembled now, inching toward Cecile and looping her arm through hers. Joseph's pasty face stretched into a smirk more ghoulish than any expression he could maneuver out of the plaster-cast heads.

He quickly put the prop aside and took out the lasso again.

His glee increased as he saw Meg recoil while the girls around her clapped.

"Forget those heads, children," he said in his raspy voice. "Gruesome as they are, they are nothing compared to the Phantom's face."

"What's he look like?" Jeanne blurted out.

Usually at this point Buquet would smile darkly and then change the subject, expounding instead on another rumor about the Phantom's mischief. However, Buquet noticed Meg seemed distracted and nervous, and the rum he'd just drunk made him more anxious than usual for her undivided attention. So for the first time, the chief of the flies dared describe in detail the Phantom's face.

"Like yellow parchment is his skin," he began in a voice more ominous than usual. He started playing with the lasso, trapping and freeing his hand to brief smatterings of applause. "A great black hole in the center of his face – for you see, he has no nose! One never grew!" He swayed on his stool, his knuckles brushing against a nearby girl's skirt. "His head is like a skeleton's – a true death's head!"

Joseph Buquet, in truth, did not remember much of his momentary encounter with the opera ghost some five years past. He'd already been a bit of a surly drunk then, but competent and serious in his duties. He'd only gone down to the cellars to seek out that old fool Lajos, as the rats had been at the backdrops again.

He was a devout atheist, a skeptic. He'd forced himself not to bite the heads off fools who spoke seriously of a phantom in front of him. Nonsense. Idiotic nonsense.

But on that night he was lost in the cellars, having taken too many downward turns in his haste, in the dark. His temper rising, he stumbled and cried out, falling a good foot or so. He swore as the light in his lantern snuffed out. When he finally managed to light it again, he discovered he'd fallen through a trap door into a small circular room...surrounded by mirrors.

"What..." he started to ask himself. Then he heard a slight shuffling sound. He turned around.

The figure in the corner froze like a cat caught in a street light.

Buquet only saw him for a split second through the dim glow of the lantern.

The unexpected presence, the disorienting location, and the rum buzzing in his temples obscured his view. All that penetrated his mind was the side of Erik's face he could see – the patches of dry yellow and the wide nostril that looked like a gaping hole that, in Buquet's feverish imagination, took the place of a nose.

What he remembered most of all was that ice-blue eye and its slitted pupil suddenly blazing like something unearthly, with malice, as the figure slowly leaned toward Buquet.

With a scream like a bellows, Buquet dropped the lantern and crashed through one of the mirrors. He was suddenly somewhere cool and bluish-dark. He ran. He ran and he ran. He ran as the shards of glass scraped his skin, as he tripped over rats, as his feet slipped in puddles.

A night watchman found him just outside the opening at the rue bridge, sobbing and hysterical. The young man escorted Buquet through the back door of the opera house, through the upper floors of the cellar, until Madame Giry found them in the corridor outside the ballet dormitories.

The watchman looked at her questioningly. She only stared numbly at the large man kneeling on the floor, wailing like a half-starved baby.

The competence, the assured attitude, the no-nonsense work ethic disappeared after that night. He became a blithering drunk who took a grim triumph over the pathetic power he held over the ballet girls.

"You must be careful," he warned them now, snickering. "Or else he'll catch you! With this! His magical lasso!" Once more he stuck his head through the makeshift noose, howling with laughter.

_You fool, _Meg thought with pity.

Then she seized, staring up with her breath caught in her throat. She pointed and screamed along with the others.

For a trap door in the distance had opened, and cast over the scene was the large, all en-compassing silhouette of a man's face. The long brim of his fedora extended toward them like a ghostly arm.

A flurry of graceful, frightened sheep, the ballet girls leapt up and ran in unison. "This way!" Meg called, leading them toward their dressing room.

She stumbled and slipped over the interlocked feet and hands reaching for her. She was a shepherdess leading her frightened flock away from the wolf.

Once they reached the door, Meg turned back.

Cecile grabbed at her hand. "Wait! Where are you going?"

Meg's pale eyes gleamed like candles lit too bright. "The Phantom. Christine. I have to save her"-

"Meg Giry, you fool!" – But it was too late. Meg wrenched herself from Cecile's grasp and barreled back from where she'd run.

Her heart was jumping in her chest like a caged rabbit's, her cheeks burning. She was ill with fright, but if she could just catch up with them, see Christine alive and well –

She cried out as she collided with something tall and black.

Instinctively covering her face, she felt the hard hands gripping her arms soften. "Come, Meg, come. It's all right, darling," came that familiar voice that was soothing only ever for Meg.

The girl looked up with relief, seeing her mother's pale drawn face through the tears in her jade eyes. "M-mother! The ghost! He" –

"Never mind, child," Giry interrupted, smoothing her curls. "I've put that fool Buquet in his place. And now there's something far more important to attend to."

Taking her daughter's hand, Madame Giry led her to their apartment. Already her mother's strong, invincible presence was calming her daughter. Meg's cheeks were still red and tears still stood in her eyes, but now only from embarrassment and relief, not fear.

Then she whitened completely when her mother opened the door to Meg's bedroom. _"Christine!"_

The young diva lay prostate on Meg's bed, her dark mass of hair covering her face from where she hid it in Meg's pillow. She was still in her dressing gown from the night before. She was so still Meg for a quick, delirious moment thought she was dead.

Then Christine lifted her head, and Meg gasped at the change in her friend.

All color was drained from the already pale complexion, and she wore an expression of utter despair and exhaustion. She looked like the ghost of herself until those vacant dark eyes met Meg's.

Then the doe-like vulnerability reappeared, and her voice came out in a long, pleading whine. "Meg..."

The ballerina flew to her side, sitting beside her, cradling her head in her lap.

"Christine, Christine!...What...what happened to you? Where did you go?"

A groan was her only answer. Christine shivered as she clutched the girl's tutu with increasing urgency.

Images flew with dart-like clarity through the singer's mind.

_The boat..._

_The lake..._

_The man._

_The _monster.

The night in the lair began like every dark fantasy she'd ever nourished. The man before her, tall, powerful, and lithe, hypnotized her with his gestures, with that soaring, ethereal voice. The candlelight and the mist...

Perhaps...perhaps this was what the Angel meant by love...maybe...he was Raoul and a spirit from Heaven combined into one...

Then sharp moments of lucidity and no no this was the Phantom NO –

His voice...

She was lulled, she was lost in the dark eye gazing at her...

But she couldn't clearly see the other. It was too heavily shaded by the mask...

A mask, why a mask?

Because the Phantom the Phantom THE PHANTOM HE'S HERE MEG YOU WERE RIGHT –

But gently now, gently. He knew the right notes to sing, the right darkness to tap into, as if he knew her soul's secrets.

And she followed.

Followed to the mirror in his lair, covered by a sheet.

Then the sheet was gone. She saw herself standing encircled by the jagged shards of glass.

Saw her own self standing before her, dressed as a bride.

She was dead.

The figure staring at her was herself dead, still and white, eyes wide and unseeing.

Horror gripped Christine more firmly than ever before. She was a captive, there was no Angel, and this –

Just as she approached the apparition, it lunged at her with arms outstretched.

This was Hell.

She felt and heard nothing more, only vaguely sensing him catch her as she fainted.

When she awoke, he – .

_When she awoke._

Christine groaned aloud again, wrestling with the memories now tossing mercilessly and incoherently in her head.

The monkey woke her, the only genuine article of warmth and humanity in the lair. She'd briefly traced the velvet lining with her finger as the monkey played the jaunty little tune from the masquerade ball on his cymbals.

Yet the memory of the monkey's face distorted. Distorted into –

An angel from hell.

His back to her at the organ. Her slow walk to him. One quick swipe of the white mask.

Then horror.

Horror.

As he crawled, oozed on his belly toward her like a snake, he confessed his deceit and obsession. Every shadow in the lair, every glimmer of candlelight threw some new hideous angle on that grotesque facade.

"_Oh, Christine..."_

She sobbed now on Meg's bed, reaching for the only tangible landline she could find. She pressed Meg's hand violently, desperately.

And Meg turned wondering eyes upward to her mother.

Madame Giry stood grim and stoic. Only her daughter could have deciphered the painful look of compassion and pity in those mystifying dark eyes as they gazed down at Christine.

Drugged, maybe, Giry thought. But no, more than likely Erik had been using the mirror to mesmerize the girl, employing the same black art that eluded even the masters in Persia.

_Oh, God or Gods, whoever or whatever you are or are comprised of, what's to be done?_

She placed a soft hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Come. Let us take her home to Madame Carina."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Did pervy Buquet skeeve you out? What a creep. Stay away from Meg, you! Get outta town! Oh, wait...he does sorta leave the scene in a little bit here...**

**My next update probably won't be for another week at least, sorry! Be back soon!**


	13. Chapter 13

Newspaper readers suffered a sort of literary whiplash in adjusting themselves to how swiftly such papers as the _Queue _changed their minds about Christine Daae. Immediately after her gala performance, critics touted Christine as an angel, a marvel. "Her sweet unique voice", "palpable and expressive acting", and "ethereal beauty" stunned the reviewers. She had them eating out of her delicate hand.

The day after, once word reached them she'd disappeared into thin air after her success, Christine Daae was all at once a real-life damsel in distress. The press spoke of her as the heroine of a mystery novel more than as a professional singer.

She was kidnapped –

But wait – the handsome Vicomte de Chagny was seen courting her earlier that evening...

She went from angel to damsel to now vixen. The pretty singing lark became a scandalous fallen woman.

Yet all this served to increase public fascination with her.

Andre and Firmin kept all this in mind, weighing the advantages of the extra publicity, odd as it may be. But in the end, Christine Daae was considered too great a risk to stake much faith in. Thus Carlotta's venomous threats and denunciations of the girl's character wore them down, and they passed their verdict about who would play what role in the opera they and Carlotta decided would take the place of _Hannibal _that night. How whoever this Phantom was knew of their selection of _Il Muto _beforehand, well, that was beyond them.

Such artistic politics were far from Raoul's mind as he left the manager's office later that day. After La Carlotta and the others departed the office to begin rehearsing _Il Muto, _Raoul stayed behind, pressing the managers for any information about this figure calling himself the "Opera Ghost". All he met were professions that they were just as perplexed as he.

Raoul quickly surmised that the managers, though intelligent in a small businessman sort of way, lacked the finesse and the motivation to serve as puppeteers behind such stunts.

He shivered even as he put on his overcoat just outside the front entrance, staring dolefully once more at the note in his hand. Christine was returned. She was safe. But who had taken her? What madman would want to torture the angel...?

"_Psst! _Monsieur," a breathy voice whispered to him.

He turned around. From down the corridor, dressed now in the ostentatious jeweler's attendant get-up for the opera, the pretty young ballerina Meg Giry stealthily tiptoed up to him.

"Mademoiselle...?" He questioned.

Her eyes were wide and her manners quiet, but she displayed none of the usual shyness and fluttering behavior he'd witnessed from the other dancers and chorus members he'd been introduced to so far. He'd noticed her observing him with a thoughtful look of suppressed excitement in the office, but without a hint of flirtatiousness.

She approached him now with the air of one on a secret mission. He raised his eyebrows as she suddenly clutched his wrist. He was used to forward behavior, from the salty cussing of men aboard the _Borda _to the brawling tavern inhabitants he'd met on his journeys_, _but since coming back to Paris, the genteel ladies he'd met in society never acted so familiar.

Yet once more, as he gazed into those eager eyes, he saw not a coquette but instead the gleam of a little soldier.

"Monsieur, will you wait for me to change quickly? I'd like to take you somewhere."

Such a straightforward little proposition. It caught even the poised young viscount off guard. "And...where would that be, mademoiselle?"

"To see Christine."

She held his interest fully now. "Can you take me to her?" At her nod, he pressed on, "But I thought you said she needed rest."

A warm little smile tucked in the corners of her mouth. "I think she needs to see you more."

The day had been wearying, and Raoul's recent experience at the hands of the suspicious La Carlotta made him more brusque than usual. "Now see here, mademoiselle, you've doubtless heard the sordid rumors about Miss Daae and myself, but"-

Meg shook her head, her smile widening. "Oh, there's nothing to any of the silly talk, I know! Not...not like _that, _anyhow."

Raoul's manner gentled. He was surprised. "Oh? And how can you be so sure?"

Meg shrugged easily. "Because it's not in Christine's character! Or yours."

Raoul stifled a laugh. "And tell me, Miss Giry, how do you know it is not in my character?"

That straightforward simplicity again, meeting his gaze without artifice of any kind. "Because Christine believes in you."

His cheeks warmed and his eyes stung. He smiled and shook the small hand gratefully. "I'll go with you gladly."

* * *

><p>"<em>Now that you've seen me, you can never be free! You'll sing for me always! Always...Christine..."<em>

A deep moan escaped the huddled figure of Christine, coiled on her own bed now.

She desperately breathed in the smell of the pillow she'd laid her head on almost nightly for the past six years, clinging to any familiar scent and sensation to keep her grounded, sane. She felt reality slipping away from her rapidly, and the sickening topsy-turvy sense that the world had spun upside-down overwhelmed her.

Could it really have been just a day ago she felt a woman, commanding the stage and singing, and staring into Raoul's sea-blue eyes? Was it really so quickly she'd collapsed into a frightened child once more, sobbing in her bedroom at Mama Valerius's, as she had when her father died?

But why not? Wasn't she mourning a sort of death all over again? The death of a beautiful dream, a dream of heaven, only to wake and discover she was in hell the whole time.

Mama Valerius's gentle but authoritative tap on the door stirred her.

Christine was able to weakly reply, and the door opened softly.

Meg and Madame Giry were afraid that Christine's disappearance would weaken her invalid foster mother to perhaps death's door, but the old woman surprised everyone by rallying herself in the aftermath of the debut. She'd hardly touched her bed since word reached her about Christine's absence. Since Christine's return, Valerius now spent half her time at the girl's bedside and the rest of the time in the kitchen, overseeing the broth and pastries the cook made to tempt the young singer, who had eaten but little all day.

"You have a visitor, _ma petite," _Mama Valerius said in a hushed voice now.

Christine did not look up, merely nodded her head listlessly.

The old woman motioned her assent to Meg. The young dancer saw that the ordeal seemed finally to be taking its toll on the former dance mistress, the bags under her eyes and the grayish tint to her beige-blotted, wrinkled skin a tell-tale sign of fatigue. She wobbled slightly as she walked away.

Quietly, Meg approached the bed, laying a soft hand on her friend's curls. "Christine?" The singer was still clothed in a dressing gown, but at least it was her own now. Its soft lilac color gleamed an ominous purple-blue in the dim light. Meg smoothed her own quiet sky blue skirt, one of but a handful of "civilian dresses" – as the petite rats called them - she owned. "How are you feeling?"

"Please..." Christine pleaded in a small voice, answering an unspoken question. "Please...I...I can't tell you where I've been, I can't..." She covered her face with her hands, sobbing.

Meg squeezed her shoulders. She said nothing for several minutes, simply letting Christine howl out her despair into her hands.

At last Christine's cries faded into stuttering sighs. Meg took this as a cue and spoke in a more chipper voice. "Very well! We don't have to talk about that. We can talk about...oh! Clara – you know Clara, don't you? Elodie's little girl – she just lost her first tooth! Her mother is ecstatic! Cecile and I are working on a little pouch for it. Gaelle and Edith are at it again, I don't know why those two squabble so, when they used to be such good friends. I really don't think either of them even liked Rolf all that much, it's just that neither could stand the other taking his eye! Just this morning Edith stuck Gaelle with a pin during a fitting, and Pauline – you won't believe it – Pauline actually boxed their ears!"

Christine's jagged, quiet crying was interrupted now by a brief but high giggle that suddenly escaped her, sounding like a hiccup. This was followed by another giggle, and then another. Finally a warm hand slipped into Meg's. The dancer pressed it, giggling too.

Christine slowly sat up and laid a weary head on her friend's shoulder. "What are they saying about..." She didn't seem to know how to go on. "What's...what's going to happen?"

Meg took a breath. She'd been waiting for a good transition, and Christine provided it for her. _Honesty is best. It won't help her if you dance around the details, and you know she wouldn't appreciate it. _"You can't...they're not going to play _Hannibal _anymore. La Carlotta doesn't want any part of it because you're so associated with it now. There's a clause in her contract apparently...if an understudy takes over a role without her consent, she has grounds for a lawsuit. And since you're not officially her understudy, that gives her an even better case. Rather than risk that, the managers have agreed to put on _Il Muto _instead. We've been rehearsing all day."

_Il Muto _was done practically every season, and the company could perform it almost in their sleep.

Christine noticed Meg shift uncomfortably next to her. "What else?" Christine asked in a low voice.

Meg sighed, and stroked her friend's hair again. "Christine, they want you to be Serafimo."

Christine raised her head, blinking. "Serafimo? The pageboy?"

Meg grasped her hands, speaking quickly. "I know it doesn't seem like it, but this is for your own good, Christine! The Phantom is after you, and you must be protected! I know you don't want to talk about it, but that's the truth. If that means limiting your exposure for now, what's the harm? You can sing again soon, I swear it!"

Christine shook her head vehemently, almost in a frenzy, not bothering to pretend what Meg had said about the Phantom was untrue. "No, no, it isn't that! I...I don't know if I want to perform _at all! _In a silent role or otherwise!"

Meg blushed and shifted again. "But...but Christine, if you don't perform at all..." She bit her lip. "The managers are impressed with your voice and the notices you've received, but because of your absence...they're a little..." She didn't know how to delicately get across to Christine that if she acted any more erratically or missed any other performances they'd break her contract.

But Christine understood, and shook her head again stubbornly. "I don't care. I don't care what they do, do you hear me? Maybe I'll never go back. Maybe"-

Meg placed a hand over her mouth. "Maybe there's someone who can change your mind."

Christine looked at her puzzled. Meg stood and crossed wordlessly to the door. She poked her head outside and said something to someone. Then she motioned toward the guestroom next to Christine's. "Why don't you go in there for a moment, Christine?"

Christine studied the half impish, half loving expression on Meg's face. Then she knew.

Her heart surged.

She sped to the other room. She stood in the doorway, soaking in the golden presence of the man within.

Meg heard one sob from her that said everything: "Oh, Raoul!" Then Christine disappeared behind the door, closing it as Raoul's deep warm murmur greeted her.

Smiling to herself, Meg snuck out the house after bidding goodbye to Mama Valerius, who nodded knowingly at her. Their hopeful expressions were the same.

That night, Meg and Pauline helped Christine into her outfit for Serafimo. Christine found courage not only in the bright eyes of the friend before her, but in the heart of the man sitting in the Phantom's place in Box Five.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: My apologies for the late update! Things are slowing down a tad with the holidays. Hopefully my next chapter will make up for it - I've got lots of action planned. :D  
><strong>


	14. Chapter 14

Christine jolted in her seat in her dressing room as the orchestra boomed out the opening strains of the overture. She was alone now, for the first time since...

For the first time since...

She couldn't control the shaking hand that she leaned her forehead into, her elbow on her vanity. She massaged her temples. The rush of confidence she'd felt just moments before vanished.

Without Raoul, Meg, Madame Giry, or Mama Valerius by her side, Christine felt weightless, unmoored.

And frightened. Most of all, frightened.

She tried distracting herself smoothing out a wrinkle in the voluminous white skirt tied loosely around her breeches. She'd lost so much weight recently that the clothes hanged off her as they would if she really were a young boy, she thought ruefully.

She picked up her hand mirror and breathed in deeply. She looked hard into the glass, trying to will herself calm.

She would not look in the wall-mounted mirror anymore.

Christine closed her eyes and tried counting back from one hundred, a trick her father once taught her to calm her nerves.

"_Christine, Christine..."_

At once her eyes flew open, everything in her frozen. That...that wasn't in her mind. _Oh, God, no, no, not again..._

"_You look lovely even in that undignified and unworthy get-up, my dear." S_he still couldn't believe the voice came only from behind the mirror – it circled her, surrounded her.

"Please...what...what..." She couldn't bring the question "what do you want" to her lips. It was too forward, too brusque. And she was afraid to stir his anger again, just afraid, afraid.

"_Do not be nervous, my Christine. Are you down-hearted because of your senseless demotion to the role of the wordless page-boy? Fear not, sweet one. It shan't be for long. Tonight will be the sequel to your great debut!"_

"No...no!" She brought her hand mirror down with a crash, the glass shattering.

Meg rushed in at the sound, the upper half of her face almost submerged in the ridiculous large cap she wore for the show. Madame Giry loomed behind her, unnoticed.

Meg reached for the shaking, weeping Christine, pulling her away from the broken glass on the table. "Christine, what is it? What's happened?"

"It's him again, it's him!" Christine sobbed resignedly, her head back as she stood limply in Meg's grip.

"Shhh, shhhh," Meg calmed her, sitting her back down again. Once more Christine buried her head in the crook of Meg's shoulder. The little hand stroked her back. "Come now, come. Don't worry so! Mother and I will always be here for you." She tilted Christine's chin so that their eyes met. "And so will a certain someone else, too. A handsome sailor." Her eyes sparkled meaningfully, a lightly teasing smile on her face.

The tension seemed to drain from Christine's body as she returned the smile. It was shakier than Meg's, however. Still, Christine squared her shoulders, wiped her eyes. "I'll...I'll be all right. Please don't bother poor Marie about the glass, I can get it. Really, I won't cut myself. I'll be able to go on."

Giry watched as her daughter hugged Christine one more time.

The mother's lips were a hard tight line. Her eyes gleamed like fire as she stared at the mirror, imagining the dark figure behind.

* * *

><p>Firmin and Andre were silently impressed from where they sat in the box adjacent to Box Five, watching the impassive figure of Raoul de Chagny as he sat with quiet defiance in the Ghost's box.<p>

In truth, Raoul's mind was running faster than a deer through the wood.

He was a rare soul who was too intelligent and brave for his station. He'd have been better served were he allowed to fight his own way in life, using his sharp wit, his keen skills of observation, and his nerves of steel to advance.

Instead of scanning the crowd bored for the nobility present, or trading smoky smirks with the pretty ladies sitting across the way, he appeared to keep his eyes strictly on the stage. In reality, he watched carefully through the corner of his eyes every possible hide-away both in his box and around the theater, searching.

He'd failed Christine once, laughing off her story about the Angel. He would not make that mistake again. Oh, he didn't believe in an actual Phantom, but obviously some perverse, obsessed fanatic was running rampant. A stagehand, maybe...? That leering, lecherous old Buquet...?

His placement in the box was strategic. Instead of anxiety, what he felt now was a strange exhilaration.

He remembered her sobbing in the guest room at Madame Valerius's. Her fear and her utter vulnerability, contrasted with the strong grip of her hand on his.

There was fire in Christine Daae, but a tentative, uncertain one. The desire to shelter her conflicted with his desire to encourage her to stand tall, fight her foes.

But she was of no frame of mind to now. So her foe had become his. He would fight his foe and help his beloved. This was his solemn vow.

The lights dimmed. The opera began.

* * *

><p>The audience murmured in anticipation of fireworks. Already the papers discovered Carlotta and Christine's rivlary (which in reality existed solely in Carlotta's mind). The house was now full, the onlookers excited to witness the two onstage, the sparks that would inevitably fly.<p>

So far, both singers remained perfectly professional. A disappointment, but at least the opera was entertaining.

Meg was of course too swept up in the silent but ever-present role of the jeweler's assistant to make an objective assessment, but even so, she felt that maybe everything had worked out for the best casting-wise. As versatile a performer as Christine was, it was difficult for Meg to imagine her as the shallow and kittenish countess. Christine thrived in soulful, dramatic roles. Meanwhile, Carlotta with her glimmering, outsize personality fit the role of the countess like a glove. It was as if the role were written for her.

La Carlotta twirled around the stage in what Meg, with her love of all things pink and decorative, found a gorgeous gown, but people like her mother found groan-worthy and extravagant. Meg did wonder briefly how Carlotta was able to keep her head upright wearing that stiff white powdered wig as tall as a small hill.

"_Serafimo – away with this pretense!" _Carlotta saucily pulled away the loose skirt covering Christine, tossing it aside to reveal her breeches. The audience laughed at the reveal, at the masculine pose the delicate Christine struck.

Meg's eyes gleamed with pride from where she mock-giggled to the jeweler. Although Christine did excel in drama, she handled the subtler but more physical comedy of Serafimo beautifully. Her dancer's training suited the role to a tee, and maybe there was the touch of a dashing sailor about the daring smile and head toss she gave Carlotta...?

The philandering countess tickled her paramour with her fan, trilling with abandon. _"If he knew the truth, he'd never, ever go!"_

Suddenly a high, tight voice like a clap of thunder rained down on all assembled.

"_DID I NOT INSTRUCT THAT BOX FIVE WAS TO BE KEPT EMPTY?"_

A whoosh of stunned voices from the audience. Every neck in the theater twisted around in different directions, trying to spot where the eerie command came from. Raoul stood automatically, a look of steadfast concentration on his face.

Meg knew exactly where the sound originated from: the rafters, up near the chandelier. Did she see the shadow of a man there, just behind the chandelier's chain...?

"He's here, the Phantom of the Opera!" She couldn't help burst out, not that any of the other whispering and incredulous people present overheard her.

"_Meg!" _She heard her mother's voice hiss from the wings.

She blanched, expecting a round scolding for breaking character, even if the rest of the cast stared upward with open mouths, openly perplexed.

Instead, Madame Giry was actually beckoning her off the stage, her expression more fretful than Meg could ever remember it before. Not waiting a moment more, she hurried toward her.

Immediately Madame Giry pulled her to her side, her arms tight around her. The ballet mistress's eyes were locked on the chandelier, however.

From the stage, Meg could hear Christine announce as if in a daze, "It's him! I know it, it's him!"

Following the example of what she considered the cretins around her, Carlotta broke character by stomping toward Christine, pulling her back to the bed. "_Your _part is silent," she snarled. "Little toad."

The voice from above again, dripping with contempt. _"A _toad, _Madame? Perhaps it is _you _who are the toad."_

Madame Giry closed her eyes, muttering something under her breath. Then she turned to Meg. "Go and change for the ballet in Act III."

Meg was confused for a moment, but something in her mother's eyes made her nod quickly, then hurry off to the dressing room.

Madame Giry turned back slowly to the stage, watching with the helplessness of one stuck in a recurring nightmare, knowing what's coming but powerless to stop it.

The crew onstage managed to regroup, and start from the beginning of the countess's refrain. _"Serafimo, away with this pretense! You cannot speak, but kiss me in my—CROOOOOOAAAAAACK!"_

Carlotta's lovely hand clutched her powdered throat. Her eyes were circles of terror.

The sound she'd emitted was hideous, grotesque: a toad hopped in from a swamp.

The only noise now was his snicker, above.

All the pride and courage within Carlotta fought to the forefront now. She ignored the beads of sweat on her brow, the hammering of her heart, the whispers in the audience. Christine's gaping stare. Carlotta squared her shoulders and nodded to the conductor.

They hurried on. _"Poor fool, he makes me laugh! Ha-ha-ha-haaa! Ha-ha-CROOOOOAAAAAK! CROAAAAAK! CROOOAAAAAAAK!"_

As the croaking increased to the point where the audience wasn't sure to laugh or turn away, with Carlotta grasping for air, the manic laughter from above intensified. Christine paled, staring dead-eyed yet sympathetically at the valiantly struggling diva before her. Carlotta's face would have melted her harshest enemy.

Madame Giry slitted her eyes as the chandelier swayed menacingly back and forth, the light flickering, alarmed voices rising. _"Behold! She is singing to bring down the chandelier!"_

Her temper to her limit, Madame Giry was on the breaking point of striding forward and accosting that wretched voice, when a small "Mother?" made her turn around.

Her Meg stared with wondering, frightened eyes, craving comfort. The ballet girls were gathered behind her, the same look on their petrified faces. Meg looked like an angel in her pale green dress, a true country nymph.

_My girl. So beautiful, so innocent._

Like magic, Madame Giry melted, and pulled her daughter to her once more.

Meg tentatively put a hand around her mother's waist, touched but not used to such a demonstrative display from her mother in public. From over Giry's shoulder, Meg could see Carlotta collapsing and sobbing in Piangi's arms, who was escorting her off the stage, murmuring sweet Italian words of reassurance in her ear.

The managers stumbled into the mother and daughter, looking as if they'd been struck by a passing train. Andre wordlessly opened his mouth once or twice before stammering out, "The ballet, Madame?"

Calm again, Madame Giry released her daughter and nodded gravely. "The girls are ready, messieurs." Nodding vacantly, Andre and Firmin trudged to the footlights to reveal the temporary change in program – after the ballet, Christine Daae would go on as countess.

The chandelier instantly steadied.

Meg furrowed her brow, staring at Madame Giry. "Mother, how did you know the ballet would go on now?"

She shrugged dismissively. "After working here as long as I and seeing what I've seen, you begin anticipating the next move in his ungodly, eternal chess match. Now go to places, all of you!"

* * *

><p>Joseph Buquet enjoyed nothing more than his bird's eye view of the stage from the rafters overlooking the backdrops. He knew vaguely people mocked him, jeered at him, but here? Here he could laugh back, laugh at the blurry dark faces in the distance, sitting there and staring – and staring at what? Trash, that's what. Gaudy dresses and faces drowned in makeup, that's all.<p>

His fleshy lips curled into a rictus-like smile as the ballet girls vaulted onstage in a confused rush, tangling their feet with the departing managers and gob-smacked singers still onstage. The Daae wench had called for her lover and then been dragged off by the Giry bitch. Now Buquet could look all he wanted at his dancers, at his little Meg.

He tilted his head, smile widening, eyes slitting. He liked the view from above particularly now.

How prettily she moved at the head of the line. Such a graceful dancer. Like a little porcelain figurine.

A thump jostled him.

He turned to see that pale blue eye again, glaring now out of that infamous mask.

* * *

><p>Meg felt a giddy anxiety as she mechanically went through her steps, dancing around the clutter of props still not taken away from the last scene. Everything was so surreal. She had seen a lot in her years at the opera house, but never anything so blatantly hectic and disorganized. And in front of the audience, no less!<p>

But her deeply ingrained professionalism guided her, and her lovely face showed only the thoughtless delight any nymph would feel, dancing gaily in the moonlight.

Until the moonlight flickered.

At first it was but a brief flash, nothing out of the ordinary on this chaotic night.

But then another, longer.

Meg couldn't help herself. She glanced behind her shoulder.

She danced out of step, immersed by the shadow show she saw on the lovely hillside backdrop.

A man leaning away with his lantern.

The face with its fedora again.

The music, her fellow dancers, everything shrank to a dull nothingness compared to the terror Meg felt.

Shadow of a noose.

A cape.

The man with the lantern again, lifting his other hand in self-defense.

Meg was dimly aware others were watching now, that she was not the only ballet rat stumbling and distracted.

The fedora, the face, and the noose once more.

Then the body dropped.

In the midst of her screaming, Meg thought in a detached, dream-like manner how pathetically and somehow comically small Buquet's body looked dangling dead there in its noose, compared to the shadows that had preceded him.


	15. Chapter 15

After her first kiss with Raoul, Christine thought to herself in a haze that it hadn't mattered if there was one person watching or one hundred. Everything and everyone vanished. All she had or would ever need was this rooftop, and Raoul, always beside her.

Raoul felt that the years he'd lived without Christine were worthless, nothing. How could there be anything but her?

The timorous fear that made her almost incoherent just minutes before was gone, and he stared not at a horrified child, but at a woman. A happy woman.

She'd told him as much as she could – even now he wasn't sure what she spoke of was real, of if the trauma of whatever she'd endured shocked her into a morbid fantasy. He knew nothing more than he would suffer any pain, any hardship, so that he could give her his strength.

"Christine, I love you."

They stood in the cool night, an immense gargoyle with wings their guardian. Raoul looked at her. In the moonlight she was a multi-colored diamond. Her mint-green cloak covered the pale blue and pink pleated skirts of her modified costume.

She was unreal – some dark and misty fairytale from his youth he couldn't quite recall.

The heat from her frail arms as he gripped them comforted him that she was in fact solid, there.

All the while, she wondered how two blue eyes could gleam so bright in the dark. She forgot about who she suspected lurked behind the gargoyle.

A mischievous smile lit up her face, dark eyes dancing. "Order your fine horses, be with them at the door," she said grandly, giddily imitating Guinevere, with he as Arthur.

She whispered plans into his ears: _we'll go to the country, stay at the Valerius estate in Perros where Mama's spinster sister now lives and can serve as chaperone._

Perros again. Just the two of them.

Raoul smiled. Already she was sounding more sure, the husky note in her voice containing a wild, confident fire. "To think, in just a few hours' time you'll be mine, all mine," he replied.

"Side by side, my love." She kissed him again.

Her cloak billowed as the strong night breeze blew through it. This brought them back to earth. A protective arm wrapped around her shoulders, Raoul escorted her off the roof. The young lovers took turns giggling like schoolchildren sneaking away from their governess and leaning into each other's sides passionately, until they disappeared down the roof steps back into the theater.

Erik imagined he could hear their echoed words, their plans of love, floating back up to taunt him.

He felt like he was down a dark, endless tunnel, watching the only ray of light, the only hope for escape dwindling away in the distance. Away from him, away.

Leaving him with nothing but a gaping wound bleeding out.

He stood shaking and swaying from where he still perched behind the gargoyle's head. His cape shrouded his shoulders like a bat about to plunge down to the earth.

He gave her his music. Made her song take flight.

_He _did these things. _He._

Not _him._

Erik recalled with sickening detail how warm the viscount's voice was – in comparison to his own icy and imperious tones, which must have frightened and repulsed her when he lunged at her with his ghoulish face revealed.

He recalled the viscount's gentle hands on her forearms, probably just as warm as the young man's voice – and Erik's, cold as death.

Oh, mad Christine, to fall in love with a warm voice and a pair of hands, and a handsome face alone!

This is what he desperately told himself: it was the handsome face and the warm facade she loved, not the man.

But somewhere, some rare genuine nugget buried beneath the theatrical madness, told Erik the truth.

She loved the man. And she did not love Erik.

It was this truth that broke him as he sat atop the gargoyle that night.

For the first time in years, Erik wept.

"Christine..._Christine..."_

He did not once wonder if the same shallowness he assigned to Christine dwelt in him as well, and that it was _he, _and not she, who loved a figment.

Betrayal coupled with heartbreak and - though he would deny anything so petty - injured dignity suddenly turned his burning tears to uncontrolled rage.

_You will curse the day you did not do all that the Phantom asked of you!_

* * *

><p>Meg panted as she stood in line for curtain call. So many costume changes, so many shifts in program, so many nightmares come to life under blazing hot lights! The audience that remained after the Buquet fiasco seemed stunned by the night's events, and clapped perfunctorily instead of with true joy, unlike after Christine's debut in <em>Hannibal.<em>

Christine herself had exceeded Meg's expectations – oh, Meg knew Christine could play the countess admirably, but she'd truly sparkled once she took her place in the leading role that night.

Some true joy flashed in Christine's face, her actions adorable and minx-like. Her voice was more carefree and joyous than a trilling songbird's. Her cheeks flushed beneath her powdered makeup.

As she commanded the stage throughout the performance, Meg caught her a few times darting conspiratorial glances in the direction of Box Five. There the handsome young man sat, gazing at her as though she was the only sign of water in a vast, scorching desert.

Despite tear tracks still evident in the makeup on Meg's own face from the terror she felt after Buquet's death, the ballerina couldn't help feeling a small thrill as she surmised the understanding Christine and the viscount had come to after the disaster.

Still, even Christine's prodigious performance was not enough to truly inflame the cautious audience. In truth, there was something mildly unsettling and incongruous to Christine's whimsical performance after the macabre interruption two acts before.

The rest of the players were just as tense as the audience, bowing mechanically, eying the theater uneasily.

_This will all be over soon, _Meg thought.

Then the chandelier began to sway.

Meg slowly lifted her head. She couldn't breathe.

She saw his bat-like outline far above. He was again in the rafters, just obscured by the rollicking fixture. She heard his laugh: loud, mad, despairing.

The chandelier teetered like a ship cast from wave to wave in a storm.

A clutter of panicked rising voices, shifting hurriedly from their seats. The company frozen solid onstage. Christine's face, a moment before so bright and rosy, dead white now, stricken.

A bellow from the specter above: _"GO!"_

There was a split second of eerie silence as the chandelier detached from its chain.

Then a chaos of screams as it fell to the earth, its crystals flying upward like a swan's wings.

Pandemonium reigned supreme.

* * *

><p>A few hours before sunlight, Madame Giry entered Box Five.<p>

The pandemonium was cleared.

She stared down into the seats. The ruin of the chandelier lay under the immense cover the officers from the _Sûreté _had managed to throw over it. Sawdust and detached crystals coated the entire house regardless. She could see the splintered wood of the broken seats peeking beneath the cover.

Three were injured, one dead.

She'd sent Meg home to spend the night with Christine. The singer had collapsed to her knees the moment the chandelier landed, her deep moan as pervasive and despairing as those crushed beneath the fixture.

Raoul had seen the two girls to his carriage. His face was tight and anxious. He seemed more like a general than a rich young nobleman, his movements strong and confident. He'd spoken in a low and sober voice to the policemen, asking pointed questions about what security measures they planned to take. Yet all the time, Giry could plainly see the concern and heartbreak for Christine staring out of his expressive eyes.

He exchanged one understanding glance with Meg as the two helped situate the passive and delirious girl into a comfortable position in the coach. Meg would watch over Christine tonight, taking over for Madame Valerius, who'd suffered a relapse from overextending herself the day before.

Madame Giry secretly hated to part with Meg after such a night, but she made no complaint. She couldn't deny Christine Daae the right to a true friend with the weight of the world – in the form of that ornate and massive light fixture – at her feet.

The managers had looked as stunned as Christine, nodding dumbly to the sergeant asking them pressing questions. They automatically put on a good show for the remaining audience members, offering stilted condolences and assurances as the patrons flurried about, the ladies crying and fanning themselves.

But now – now – now that the space was cleared and the company finally at rest for what remained of the night – now it was only Madame Giry standing in Box Five.

Her lips were pursed, her eyes hard and unyielding.

She stepped to a panel situated behind a pillar. She felt for the latch, then pushed down and slid it open.

Inside was a long silk bell-pull. She yanked it harshly.

If Erik was in his lair, it would take him about twenty minutes to arrive.

Still as a statue of an angry god, Giry waited.

A full hour passed.

"Erik," she called out in a clear, resounding voice. Had there been chance witnesses around, they would have jumped at the commanding bark emitted suddenly from that still form and empty face.

If Erik was not in his lair, calling his name was usually the tactic to take. Erik seemed to always hear when his name was spoken. How, even Madame Giry did not know.

Forty-five minutes passed. She called again.

She waited only twenty-five minutes more. A miniscule amount of animation crept into her features. Her eyes scanned the area thoughtfully.

Several reasons could be in play as to why he did not appear. Maybe for the first time he was in an area of the theater where he could not hear her. Maybe after tonight, he was brooding especially hard – or perhaps consumed with guilt – and chose not to acknowledge her.

But...

But hope can stir even in the most world-weary individual.

Something about the stillness, the emptiness – not just the _physical_ emptiness, but the lack of _presence – _made Giry wonder wildly –

Christine did not love him. Certainly he knew that by now. And now he had perhaps tarnished his opera house's reputation forever, killed two people.

What if that was his climax, his grand adieu?

What if...

What if Erik was _gone?_

Vanished, left?

She waited a few minutes more, breathing shallowly.

Emptiness. Still, quiet, _peaceful emptiness_.

For the first time in years, hope dawned in Anahid.


End file.
